


Sometimes Dead is Better

by GenericDemon



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: AU after s6e16, AU where a bite is a death sentence even if you chop off the limb, Absurd, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Atypical Negan, Cannibalism, Crack Treated Seriously, Dehumanization, Disturbing Themes, Don't take any of this super seriously, Gen, Glenn Rhee Lives, Half-walker Rick, Immortal Rick, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Michonne is the leader of Alexandria, Negan just wants answers, Other, People unwilling to address issues, Platonic Relationships, Rick Whump, Rick isnt exactly in his right mind, Suggestive Themes, The useless kind of immortal, Unreliable Narrator, big what if fic, character death but not really, kind of immune Rick Grimes, not Canon compliant to an extent, potentially triggering material, ricks pov
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-16
Updated: 2019-07-14
Packaged: 2020-01-14 18:05:32
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 37,427
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18481540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GenericDemon/pseuds/GenericDemon
Summary: Rick gets bit.That should've been the end of the story but, he wakes up and he's not exactly the same.The biggest difference-- he can't die.___________Rick blinks up at Negan, bleary-eyed understanding dawning on him when the man crouches in front of him. Fingers grip his chin, smearing the blood there and pushing at his lips to reveal a hint of red stained teeth."It's a damn shame you can't die." Negan whispers, the barest hint of a smile filling Rick's vision. "Cause you're not gonna like what comes next."Negan lets him go none too gently, making his teeth click and his head spin. Rick is left with the chill of a slow simmering fear, creeping like ice down his spine as he watches Negan walk away.___________AU after Season 6 Episode 16





	1. Last Day on Earth

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "No, but that is a good thing to bring up. Think about it. What if it's the last day on Earth for you? For someone you love? What if that's true? Maybe you should be extra nice to those people in that RV, 'cause you never know…” -Simon, The Walking Dead

Rick knew something was different the moment he woke up from that coma. Not something different with the world, that was a given when he saw that half eaten body in the hospital corridor but, something different about himself. He woke up delirious with thirst, weak and atrophied, beyond hungry but, he'd managed to walk out of there, hell he'd even managed to ride a bike. He should've been dpead.

Those flowers that Shane had brought were dry and dead when he'd woken up, having already dropped a number of brittle petals onto the side table. The place was abandoned, the corpses outside already considerably rotted and there were no people in sight. He had to assume he'd been left there for days and still he didn't succumb to hunger, let alone dehydration.

Instead, by some miracle, he'd woken up. Something had kept him alive. Perhaps it was some otherworldly phenomenon, or God himself, or maybe it was simply something he already had. 

Whatever the reason, he'd survived and he kept surviving, gathering people and finding family along the way. Ever since he'd woken up to the end of the world, he'd managed to escape death over and over again. He knew it was bound to catch up someday soon. 

He has regrets, doubts and a constant burden that seems to rest heavy on his shoulders, dragging at his ankles and threatening to keep him in one place. It threatens to leave him weary, downtrodden, and unwilling to press on, it nips at his heels and threatens to trip him up. It taunts him everyday, like the sun that beats harshly upon his skin and the constant murmur of the leaves. So soft and warm but, oh did it sting like nothing else, but he always kept going, always finding a way out. 

He's trapped now, the past stretching behind him and the future teetering over a cliff before him. The present, oh it was right in front of his face, laughing and with a voice so charming it could only belong to the Devil. Whatever it is that keeps him going, that mystery that keeps his heart beating - it is gone, all of its usefulness now reduced to a red haze that lays thick across his mind.

Rick stares at the ground, knowing if he looks up, if he dares meet the eyes of that man, if he sees that smile, he'll sink his teeth straight into his windpipe. Blood roars in his ears and red dances at the edges of his vision, he swallows and blinks, trying to chase it away. He thinks bitterly, that Negan would finally shut the fuck up.

His eyes flick up for a moment, catching a glimpse of leather and a barbed wire bat swinging into his vision, and suddenly everything is too loud. He can hear the creak of leather, the soft shift of clothes on skin, whimpers, murmurs, breathing, sobs, and the deafening crunch of boots on gravel. Rick can practically feel each noise as they reach his ears, loud, clapping like thunder but, soft as rain next to the boom of Negan's voice. 

“Everybody's at the table waiting for me to order-” Rick clenches his jaw so tight he can hear his teeth protest the abuse and he digs his nails into his palms where they rest on his jeans, leaving bloody crescent moons he can't feel. 

Negan's sentence hangs in the air, a collective breath held only to rush out when he whistles, slinging Lucille over his shoulder. “And I simply cannot decide.” 

He can sense eyes on him, like a prickling that dances uncomfortably down his spine and makes his hackles rise. Rick looks up, he can't stop some animalistic instinct, some primal desire to track the predator that looms before him. 

Negan smiles, a wide thing that pushes up his cheeks and crinkles his eyes, all threatening, self-congratulatory, with a tongue pressed to the back of his teeth. Rick answers, not with words but a slow curling of his lips, a snarl unlike any that's graced his face since the Claimers threatened Carl. He forces his gaze back down if only to reign in a sense of control.

His chest rattles with a growl, low and barely audible, it is not punctuated by an inhale of air. It's a constant din, like the rumble of an engine and it seems to set the others on edge, if not make them concerned for what he might do. He can hear Sasha shift beside him, he can see Abraham and Maggie from his peripherals both giving him a quick glance, and he knows Carl is looking at him as well. 

“I got an idea.” A low chuckle and Rick doesn't have to look to see Negan's smirk. A whistle fills the air, demanding attention, filling the silence but, still Rick looks at his hands. 

The countdown starts, a sick and depraved version of a game played by children on the playground. A little nursery rhyme, a little song used by grade schoolers to make decisions, now twisted into a haunting chant and Rick can hear the steps approach him before he sees Lucille. 

They slow, hesitating, lingering just in front of him. He thinks he should lunge forward, jump up and tackle the man to the ground. He wants to bite as hard as he can, wherever he can until clothing gives way to soft flesh and that gives way to bone. He wants to taste blood in his mouth, to feel the rubber of muscle and fat rest heavy and fresh, and keep going. 

Rick shuts his eyes against the sensation, a hunger clawing at his stomach. Painful and churning, bile crawling up his throat as he rocks forward. Whimpers replace the growling, it hurts. He pushes his fists into his jeans and hunches lower, he can't feel his nails as they break skin or the gravel that digs into his knees. He's starving and it is so unlike any starvation he's felt before. Not even when he became exhausted, gaunt and thin on the road to Terminus, it's nothing compared to this. 

Because he doesn't know this hunger. He's never felt it. What a time for it to rear its head, thrash just behind his eyes like a walker chained and no matter how it tugged, or pulled, or yanked it could never reach its prey. He bites his tongue, blood fills his mouth but its bitter, far too bitter. It's like a poison and he wants to spit it out but, he can't move, can't blink, can't breath. He's scared of what he might do, of what he might become, of what he already is. 

The footsteps stop. “Anybody moves, anybody says anything, cut the boy's other eye out and feed it to his father.” Negan's voice drops, low and soft, into a threat, no a promise, “And then we'll start.” 

“You can breath.” 

He doesn't.

“You can blink.” 

He can't. 

“You can cry.”

He is. One of the few things he can feel is the tears on his cheeks, cold as they evaporate into the night air only to be replaced by more. Even with his eyes tightly shut, they still fall and he can't remember when he started crying, only that he hasn't stopped. Not even the hunger, nor the rage or the visceral sensation of eyes on him can stop them. 

This is on him. 

Negan laughs, “Hell you're gonna be doing a lot of that.” 

A moment of silence is broken by the thud of an immovable object met with an unstoppable force. 

Rick's gaze snaps up in time to see blood run down Abraham's face, the man himself staring up almost unflinchingly up at his assailant. His skull is visibly cracked open yet, he barely seems to waver. 

“Oh! Look at that!” Rick looks to Negan and the man seems genuinely surprised to see that Abraham managed to get back up. For a moment he rocks back on his heels, swinging Lucille low, the wires nearly touching his pants, and a thousand watt smile on his face like he just unwrapped his first present on Christmas Day. 

“Taking it like a champ!” Rick feels cold, suspended in time as the last word hangs in the air. He looks from Negan to Abraham, back and forth, eyes barely focusing, distant and glazed, seeing but, not really. He opens his mouth, and finally he inhales shakily, licking his lips and still he tastes poison from his tongue. He can practically taste the copper of fresh blood in the air. It roils, a nauseous wave in his gut that's echoed by an insatiable hunger. 

Abraham speaks, perhaps a bit slow but, with no less gusto, as if a mad man hadn't taken a crack at his head with the hardest downward swing he could muster. 

Negan keeps going, each thud ringing out like a gunshot, one after another after another, until he's worked himself breathless. 

“Did you hear that?” It's a weak breathy, chuckle, satisfied and thoroughly entertained. It's not even a question, more of a statement and Negan looks right at Rick when he says it. 

“He-” Negan pauses the sentence dissolving into a child-like laugh as he shakes his head, looking to the side as if even he can't believe it, “He said 'suck my nuts.’” 

For a moment Negan just chuckles, breaking eye contact with Rick and sucking in a short breath through his teeth. In the next heartbeat he brings Lucille down. 

Again and again and again. 

He watches every single swing, as it hits its mark. He can't look away, can't pretend like he doesn't hear the sick squelch of flesh, or hear his people cry, or smell the sweet, ripe, metallic scent of a fresh corpse. 

Rick licks his lips and swallows. He can't stop shaking, can't stop the short breaths that push from his chest without his permission, faster and faster until they're just panting punctuated by a pitiful whine with each exhale. He raises up on his knees, straightening his back and reaching forward. He thinks twice about moving, instead collapsing onto himself. 

Shaking and pitiful, he can hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears but, it's sickening because he cannot feel a thumping in his chest. It's hollow, a yawning chasm, and he realizes the heartbeat he hears can't be his. It can't be. He can't feel his heart, can't feel the cold, or the exhaustion, there's only desperation, a broiling that boils his blood and curdles his thoughts into rotten, unrecognizable forms of what they once were. 

This is his fault. 

He squints against the harsh light of the headlights as he looks up at Negan. There is no more thudding. There is no more grunts of exertion. Only a laugh, that damn laugh as if he's heard a funny joke at the bar. “Oh-ho, my goodness.” 

Negan brings Lucille closer to his face, to get a nice long look at the bat head and then swings her around to point at Rick, “Look at this!” 

Blood splatters hot against his face, and he flinches away at the sensation. Like a live wire suddenly pressed to his cheek, it lights up the nerves under his skin. He blinks, the drops smearing, mixing with his sweat. All he can smell is copper, it fills his nose, his mouth and it swirls a heady, intoxicating perfume in his brain. Rick can barely focus.

“You guys.” Negan addresses them as if they're children in a classroom, giddy and excited for them to see what he has to show them. Only it's not a season of Bill Nye the Science guy on VHS, it's death and gore. “Look at my dirty girl!”

No one says a word and Negan takes it as his cue to catch his breath. He walks in front of Rosita, hovering the bat just in front of her nose. Viscera drips noisily onto the ground. It's a soft pitter patter that will haunt Rick just as each crunch of Abraham's skull surely will. 

“Sweetheart…” He says it soft, as if it will offer any semblance of comfort. It's a crude gesture and Rick looks at Rosita's face, trying to muster up words but, having none. “Lay your eyes on this.” 

A part of him wants to leap to his feet, stand between her and that cursed bat. He wants to shield her from whatever humiliation, whatever intimidation or degrading tactic Negan plans to use on her. A part of him wants to grab the bat from Negan's hands, a bloodthirsty part that wants to drive it through his mouth until it comes out the back of his head. Let him choke on his words. 

Negan hesitates for a moment, glancing at Abraham's body. “Oh... damn.” 

Rick curls his lips, this man's voice had no business sounding that sincere, as if he actually gave a shit when minutes ago he was cheerfully swinging away. 

“Were you-” Negan pauses, “Were you together?” Rick must be hearing things, because it almost sounds as if Negan's voice cracked on the word together. It's entirely possible he’s losing it, with how he suddenly feels like someone, or something else is encircling his thoughts, waiting to infect him. 

“That sucks… But, if you were, you should know there was a reason for all this.” Negan licks his lips and that smile slides right back onto his face, “Red- and hell he was, is and will ever be red!” 

Red, Rick thinks, like the color of the blood on his face and the haze clouding his vision. Red like the scarf on Negan's neck. Red that he can imagine, that he wants, staining his teeth and dripping from his hands. Red, red, red, he repeats it like a mantra in his head.

Negan's voice is booming through the clearing once more, drawing Rick back into reality and chasing away the red, “He just took one, or six- or seven- for the team!” 

“So take.” Negan raises the bat back to Rosita's face, “A damn. Look.” It's an order, ground out through clenched teeth, and that carefree facade falls away.

Rosita looks past the bat, mouth open and refusing to focus on Lucille. Rick rocks forward, hand splayed across the rocks on the ground. His other raises up, reaching but, he tucks it back towards himself. 

“Take a damn look!” 

Something in that shout sparks a reaction. He can see Daryl move, like a slow motion picture movie and despite the consequences he lunges to stop him. He knows it will be undoubtedly worse if Daryl manages to land a hit on Negan. 

Rick lunges to his feet. It's instantaneous and he crosses the distance between himself and the hunter. His movements are not his own, his thoughts even less so, and he can only slam futilely against the cage his consciousness has formed around him. It's some animalistic instinct, come rushing to the surface, spurred on by the adrenaline and let forth by the need to protect, even if it hurts others in the long run. No one else needs to die. 

He tackles Daryl to the ground, leaning down heavily, forearm pressing into the hunter's throat while his hand comes up to grab the left hook thrown at his face. Anger makes Daryl snarl in his face, as if he doesn't realize who Rick is. Confusion steps in a moment later, creasing the hunter's brow. Betrayal enters last and Rick can see the moment the eyes beneath him turn cold, and with renewed vigor the body beneath him struggles. 

“Stay down.” Rick snarls, honest to God snapping at Daryl’s face with his teeth and for all the world acting like the rotting corpses he fought for so many years. 

Daryl cranes his neck, eyes going wide and face turning away. It's an instinct born from years of avoiding teeth that could kill. His sweat slick wrist twists in Rick's grip but, he keeps the pressure up like a vice, squeezing until he feels the bones give way and a pained, panicked grunt escapes Daryl. 

Hands land on his shoulders, he doesn't budge. He can only see Daryl, can only feel as the hunter tries to throw him off. He can smell his injury, can smell the infection and the weakness and the blood and the meat. 

“Get him off, now!” 

Negan's voice cuts through the red and Rick slackens his grip, allowing the hands, many, many hands, to yank him up. They pull him and he stumbles to stand as they drag him a safe distance away. He thrashes against the grip, twisting and turning and for a moment the red returns. He cranes his neck, biting and yelling and growling at the hands holding him fast. They shove him unceremoniously back onto his knees, the end of a gun pressing his head to the side. 

Rick relents with heaving breaths and one last tug at his captors’ grip. He watches as Daryl is pulled up painfully by his hair, only to be shoved face down into the gravel, a cross bow aimed at his face. The hunter grabs at the hands, and tries to hoist himself up as he watches Rick with a weary gaze. He seems more afraid of his friend in that moment than the Savior's around them. That fear slams Rick back into clarity. Daryl doesn't scare easy. He doesn't do fear but, here he is looking at him- scared.

“Holy Hell.” Negan raises a fist to his face, hovering beneath a giddy smile, “Now that I did not see coming!” 

He slings Lucille onto his shoulder, “No, oh no.” Negan turns to face away from them, “That?”

He turns back around, coming to crouch right in front of Daryl. “That- is a no-no.” 

Rick watches, shaking and wondering if he's just sealed their fate. His head bobs up and down in a rhythm he can't stop. He looks at everyone else, all kneeling, now in front of him. He looks at Carl, as if to be sure he's alive. No one meets his eyes.

He looks at the ground, licking his lips and the gun aimed at his temple only seems to push harder. 

“The whole fucking thing.” Rick glances up in time to meet Negan's gaze. “Not one bit of that shit flies here.” 

The man with the crossbow presses it closer, nearly touching the back of Daryl's head, “Do you want me to do it?” 

Negan grabs Daryl's hair, forcing a grunt from him as he pulls his head up. It's as if he's inspecting him, “No.” 

He lets Daryl go, “No, you don't kill them.” The hunter's labored breathing fills Rick's ears. “Not until you try a little.” 

Relief does not overcome Rick, instead dread drops his stomach to his feet and he wants to be sick. They drag Daryl back into the lineup, leaving Rick the odd one out.

Negan stands, turning his attention on Rick. “And anyway…” He steps right in front of him, leering down and looming over him. He does not crouch, does not attempt to get on the same level. He simply looks down the length of his bat, right into Rick's eyes. Rick looks back, every bit a man shaken and scared and confused but, look he does.

“That's not how this works.” Negan gestures to the Saviors holding him, and the pressure of the gun is lifted, so are the hands. Rick has half a mind to use his new found freedom. His better judgement keeps him firmly on the ground. 

“Now, I already told you.” Negan swings Lucille dangerously close to his nose. He can feel blood drip on to his hands, soak into his lap, and the red starts to creep back. Ricks lip curls back, ever so slightly flashing a hint of pale teeth. If Negan notices, he doesn't comment. “The first one's free. Then, what'd I say? I said I will shut that shit down!” 

Negan shouts, never turning to look at the rest of Rick's people. It's meant for him. All of it is. 

“No exceptions.” That smile lights up his face, and Negan leans back, pulling Lucille away. 

Rick nearly crawls after Negan, reaching for the legs of his pants as the man turns away, bat swinging to point at the collective. Rick knows keeping Negan's attention on him means he won't be able to focus on killing anyone else. He's willing to beg, on his hands and knees, he's willing to do anything as long as they get to live. Just as Rick lurches forward, Negan whips back around. 

“But I'll be damned!” Rick scrambles backwards at the unexpected outburst, arms giving out for a moment and he lands flat on his back. Negan advances on him and Rick pushes himself backwards with one arm as the other comes up, a weak, shaking palm raised to shield himself. 

“Ya know, I really underestimated you, Rick.” Negan grabs the front of his shirt, hoisting him up and keeping his grip there. Rick is forced to follow and he stands there, face brought much too close to Negan's as his fingers slide, sweaty and useless against leather sleeves. Negan practically forces Rick on to his tiptoes and the sound of ripping seams is too loud. 

“Now here I thought you just weren't getting the bigger picture.” Negan pulls him up closer, grinning, “But I was fucking wrong. Turns out you're smarter than you look.” 

Negan let's go. It's so sudden he can only drop to all fours, and then fall back to his knees, staring at Negan's boots, as he tries to compose himself. He can't stop seeing Abraham’s head bashed into a pulp. 

“Shit, I kill one of your men-” Negan gives Lucille a little swing, thrusting his hips, overtly suggestive and Rick's face is much too close to the other man's crotch, “-a small price to pay in my opinion.” Negan rests Lucille on his shoulder, tilting his head with that irksome smile, “And you're just bending over and taking it.”

Negan looks down his nose at him, tongue pressed to the back of his teeth in a wide splitting grin, “Hell, you nearly bit his damn face off for that little stunt he pulled.” Negan points Lucille at Daryl, shaking the bat for emphasis.

He can't stop seeing Daryl's frightened eyes. He can't tune out the stifled sobs, and the shouts, and the crying as thunderous cracks fill the air. It's all on him, always. 

“Damn, Rick. If I'd known you were such a little bitch-” Negan trails off with a huff, shaking his head, “I certainly wouldn't have gone to all this trouble!” Negan leers down at him, waving his hand in the direction of everyone, towards Abraham's corpse, and shrugs his shoulders. 

Rick whispers the only thing that comes to mind, “I'm gonna kill you.” 

He doesn't want to be seen as weak, as a man who caves in easily. He's doing all of this, kneeling and bowing his head, stopping Daryl, and protecting Negan, he does it all only because he wants them to survive. He has to endure because, one day, he will kill this man. He has to live for that to happen.

Negan stops, crouching down in front of him, “I didn't quite catch that, you're gonna have to speak up.” 

Rick tilts his head up, looking him in the eyes, “Not today… Not tomorrow…” 

He shakes his head, “But I'm gonna kill you.” 

Negan's smile falls slightly, just the barest hint of the corners drooping, before he purses his lips and inhales sharply, “Jesus.” 

It's the softest Negan’s spoken the whole night. The drone of crickets fills the air for a moment, Negan never blinking, never looking away for even a moment. “Simon, what'd he have- a knife?” 

“... He had a hatchet.” 

Negan breaks eye contact and Rick watches as his eyebrows draw up, “A hatchet?” 

“He had an ax.” 

Negan seems much more satisfied with that answer, licking his lips with the smallest nod. “Simon's my right hand man.” 

“Having one of those is important.” Rick looks past Negan for just a split second, a wandering of the eye that's so fast it's almost undetectable. 

“I mean, what do you have left without them? A whole lot of work.” 

Silence. 

“Do you have one? Maybe one of these fine people still breathing?” Rick turns his head, looking away from those piercing eyes. He sweeps his gaze over all his people, his son, past Abraham's body and finally lands on Daryl. He wonders what his brother in arms must be thinking about him now. 

“Oh, or did I-” Negan raises Lucille, flicking his wrist and clucking his tongue. 

“Or maybe-” Negan smiles, “it's your buddy over there?” Negan nods his head towards Daryl. 

Rick can feel himself losing control. He doesn't speak, doesn't blink, hell he doesn't even breath. Negan's face turns hard, a cold steel replacing that cheery disposition. Rick knows Negan sees something he doesn't like. 

Negan heaves a sigh, “Sure. Yeah… Give me his ax.” 

Heavy footsteps approach, and the ax passes between them. Negan grabs the handle, bringing the head of the hatchet to his chin. For a minute, he just stares. Seeing something in Rick's eyes. Maybe it's defiance, maybe he's just not broken enough, even though he'd jumped without a single thought to protect the Savior. Whatever it is, Negan doesn't like what he sees and Rick can feel the displeasure practically roll off him. 

Negan gets to his feet, shoving the hatchet into his belt. Rick looks away, suddenly uncomfortable by the implications of his current position. He blinks away the red hot embarrassment creeps up his neck and stings his ears.

A solid hand claps him on the shoulder, gripping the back of his jacket, yanking him forward. Rick flinches and the fear of that touch, the weight of it sends him panicking, flung straight back into a world of crimson. “I'll be right back.” 

He is forced to crawl after Negan as he drags him along. One hand scrabbles at the ground, supporting his weight while the other claws for the grip at his back. The whole time he gnashes his teeth, wishing he could pull himself close enough to hurt him. 

“Maybe Rick will be with me.” Negan readjusts, digging his fingers into the back of Rick's neck.  
Large fingers press into the muscles there and Rick stops struggling, going limp and frightened by the touch. “If not, well, we can just turn these people inside out won't we?” 

Negan heaves him up the RV's steps, tossing him with ease as if he's just taking out the trash, “I mean…. The ones that are left.” 

It's dark, and Rick's boots catch on the steps. He throws his hands out to catch himself, landing heavily on the linoleum and catching his side on the sharp corners of cabinets and benches.

He tries to get up, he stays crouched, ready to jump up and fight, eyes already adjusting to the dark and for once he agrees with that desire in his mind. The desire to kill this man by any means possible. The red is his, or so that's what he believes. He clings to it like a lifeline.

The door slams shut behind heavy boots. 

Negan grabs the back of his jacket, and throws him roughly into the cabinets sending him back to the floor. He doesn't even have a chance to get his feet under him. 

Rick yelps, like a dog kicked in the side, as his ribs collide with multiple hard surfaces. He closes his eyes and for a moment the world is blissfully dark. The fight has fled him like a breath punched from his body. 

A metallic thud breaks the silence, followed by a long sigh. Rick looks up, over his shoulder and at the hatchet buried in the table. Negan watches him, looking down at him like Rick is just a dog begging and whining for scraps at his feet. A pathetic, sorry sight. 

He turns away. Rick doesn't move to follow, it's as if his hands are glued to the floor. He stays crouched with his metaphorical tail between his legs. 

Rick looks at the hatchet, his hatchet. Then he looks to the back of Negan's head. He could do it. End it right here and the red creeps back, coaxing him, drawing him in with the promise to fix his mistake in one easy blow. 

Another long sigh leaves Negan, “Let's go for a ride.” The man turns the key and the RV only sputters, the engine failing to turn over. 

Rick crawls closer, bringing a hand up to grip the back of the booth as he pulls himself up. He's so close. He can almost see it, almost taste it. The blood that would gush from Negan's head as he cleaved his skull, as he drove the iron straight into his brain. 

“Wow, what a piece of shit.” Negan stops trying to start the RV and Rick pauses, attention drawn to the rear view mirror. He can see Negan's eyes. He doesn't need to see the rest of his face to know he's smiling. 

“I'm gonna kill you.” It's a piss poor imitation of Rick's voice, a sheer mockery. Negan chuckles, seeming to find himself hilarious. 

“Are you kidding me? Did you just see what happened, what I just did?” 

Rick blinks, looking away for a moment. He thinks of the blood on his face that is nearly dry. The blood he hasn't bothered to wipe off. He can't.

“You just-” Negan cuts himself off with a soft click of his tongue and a sigh, almost a tut, as if he's disappointed. Like Rick is some misbehaving child who can't see that Negan is right and he's wrong. 

“You're best chance, is to stand up. Grab that ax and drive it through the back of my head.” 

Rick knows it's just a ploy, a game at his expense. He can't stop himself from thinking, if he moves fast enough, if he's quick enough maybe Negan won't stop him in time. Rick raises himself up into a crouch, hand inching forward, all while he holds eye contact with the reflection in the mirror. 

“See how you do.” Oh, does that make his blood boil, not the words, or the meaning behind them. It's the tone. That self assured, self righteous, sheer assholery of it all. He pulls his lip back over his teeth. An angry, feral thing that he hopes Negan can see. 

“Keep actin’ tough. Go ahead.” 

Rick closes his eyes. Trying to just stop and think for a moment. He tries to stop the thing inside him, that beats and yells and screams to do it. To grab the ax. To kill this man. To relish every second of its brutality. 

“Grab the damn ax.” 

Rick surges forward, ripping the ax from table in one easy movement. He draws it back over his head but, Negan moves to meet him, leveling a gun at his chest and ready to fire. It stops him in his tracks.

He thinks about it, ax still raised, still ready to swing down. He thinks maybe he could make it. He just needs to be fast enough, have enough momentum to at least swing the thing across Negan's throat, or into that smarmy face, before the bullets stop him. 

“Drop it.” It's just a whisper but, it's an order, one Rick forces himself to follow. Arm shaking from where he grips the handle tight, he lowers the ax and lets it clatter at his boots. 

He can't stop himself from baring his teeth and lowering his head. A cold, defiant gaze and the rumble of a growl in his throat. 

The gun's barrel drives straight into his chest, below his sternum, with a sudden thrust. Rick falls, curling in on himself, wheezing and coughing. His hands grab at his midsection as he gasps for air. His chest aches with the hit and as much as he doesn't want to he's forced to hunch on the ground utterly exposed to Negan. 

The pain subsides, as quick as it arrived, leaving him numb and knowing that it should still hurt, still burn and throb like any other bruising blow to the chest. But, it doesn't. 

He looks up, just in time for his heart to seize in his chest. Rick cowers, pulling himself away from the downward swing of his very own hatchet. A clang rings out a second later. 

“Don't make me get up again.” 

Rick looks at his hands. For a moment, he really thought he was dead. Wide and unblinking, he stares. His vision shaking, an unfocused mess that echoes his stuttered breaths and pants. 

“Well, look at that.” Rick looks, following Negan's line of sight and the man turns to smile down at him, “Dawn is breakin’.” 

“It's a brand-new day, Rick.” He says it as if Rick should be excited, thankful that Negan had allowed him to bear witness to the sunrise.

Negan chuckles, “I want you to think about what could happen.” He shuffles back into the driver's seat, looking right back at Rick through that damned mirror again. Smug as ever, his eyes alight, high on this power trip of his, he watches Rick making sure he's listening. 

Rick is, hands braced on his knees and staring ahead. Soft breaths shuddering out between parted lips. 

“Think about what happened-” Rick's can't meet his eyes, avoiding that little rectangular mirror, “and what can still happen.” 

He looks anywhere but at Negan, scanning the floor, his hands, his jeans, looking at nothing. Everything that dances before his eyes isn't real but, he looks and he looks and he can't turn away. Each thud of a bat, each spray of blood, every person he loves struck a killing blow. 

The engine roars to life and he can't stop seeing their faces. 

He doesn't know when he made it up onto a bench but, the tell tale growl of a walker draws him into the real world. He's sitting, facing that damn hatchet in the table. 

Rick swings his head to look at the windshield, there's nothing but a grey haze beyond its glass. It's so thick, he wonders how Negan can even see the road ahead. It's just a passing though, so fleeting he doesn't even remember it crossing his mind. 

A walker collides with the RV, banging against the bumper and head splattering wide open onto the glass. 

Rick jolts at the sudden noise. He startles harder at Negan's raucous laughter. 

“Oh! Boom!” The laughter trails off and Negan turns his head, “That remind you of anybody you know?” 

Another walker falls victim, all manner of guts spraying out onto the RV. Rick looks away, swallowing and shaking his head to chase away the faces, the thoughts, and the doubts in his mind. 

The engine cuts off. They've stopped moving, but Rick can still hear the growls, he can still hear the hands as they crawl and grab at the RV looking for a way in. 

A low groan and a click of boots tells him that Negan has gotten up. He looks at the base of the table across from him, studying where it merges into the linoleum, he traces the texture of the floor with his eyes. 

The bench creaks and the cushion dips. A leg presses along the length of his thigh and a hand reaches across his vision. When it retreats it's holding his hatchet. 

“You are mine.” 

Negan presses closer, the hatchet head swinging across his vision again. An index finger pointed along its length, pointing back the way they had come. “The people back there- they are mine.” 

His hatchet is brought right up under his nose. “This--” Negan twirls it for a moment, “This is mine.” 

Negan gets up and Rick watches him move out of view. The door slams open and growling floods his ears and his eyes dart to the side, looking at Negan from the corners of his vision. He stays seated, though, head bowed and quiet. The perfect picture of submission. 

The growling draws closer and Negan grunts, a familiar thud filling the air, a sickening crunch as metal meets bone, and the growling stops. Rick turns his head, just enough to get a better view, and in time to see Negan toss the hatchet on to the roof. 

It clatters, somehow noisier than the din from outside. Rick raises his head, looking away, and he starts to understand. That this, all of it every single word, is about Negan. 

“Hey, Rick.” Negan's voice is oddly soft, almost polite. “Go get my ax. Let's be friends.” 

Rick bows his head, refusing to look at Negan, as if it will do anything, change anything. It's a small defiance he clings to and he knows it won't last.

Rick can hear another walker approaching and another thud echos a moment later. The corner of his lip twitches and he can feel his nose crinkle with it, grinding his teeth together. He doesn't look, only dropping his head further. 

Lucille is thrust into his peripherals. “Go get my ax.” Negan's voice is different, deeper, harsher, on the edge of guttural. Rick knows he can't stall anymore. 

He closes his eyes, bowing his head lower and grimacing. His lips curl and he can feel the muscles in his temple jump as he gnashes his teeth. There's no way out of this. 

Rick gets up, moving to walk past Negan and out the open door. He doesn't expect the man to grab him. He's tossed bodily from the RV, landing heavily on his side and the door slams shut behind him. 

The growling turns to screeching with the arrival of fresh meat. It's sharp and ear piercing, only making him angrier. Rick digs his nails into the dirt for a moment. 

He can't hurt Negan, he can't touch Negan, but maybe he can get away and find someone who can. 

With a newfound vigor, he launches himself at the nearest walker with a shout. He digs his fingers into rotting flesh, yelling and snarling right back at the corpse. He tosses it aside and grabs for the next one. 

Rick runs past them, racing into the mist, grabbing and throwing whatever is in his path. He stops, dread dragging him to a halt. 

All he can see in every direction are shadows, the lumbering silhouettes of walkers in a massive horde. 

One growls in his face, grabbing for him. He can feel its fingers tug at his jacket trying to draw him closer to its mouth. He shoves it away only to face two more.

He shouts, twisting out of their grip and feeling their mouths snap at his fingers, their teeth graze his jacket. Rick kicks one away, grabbing the other by the throat. 

The force of the kick sends him backwards and the walker's throat tears away in his grip. An oily, slick fistful of rot. His back collides with something hard. 

His eyes roll in their sockets for a moment as he tries to process what he's hit. Looking to his right, he can see the shape of a ladder. He scrambles for it, hand now slick with rotting tissue and fluids, it slips on the rungs.

He gives an angry cry, abandoning the ladder for a moment to ward off two more walkers with haphazard punches. 

Rick manages to get a grip on the ladder, hoisting himself up until two hands encircle his calf, tugging him back down. He shakes his leg free and kicks the walker in the skull until it lets go.

Rick crests the top of the RV, crawling on hands and knees. He stops for a moment, staring at his hands. He pants, open mouthed and heaving, saliva slipping past his lips and forming little circles in the grime that coats the roof. 

He licks his lips, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth and gags, coughing and recoiling at the foul taste that invades his mouth. It's the rotten blood of that walker's jugular he'd torn out. Disgust grips his insides, making his stomach roil and his diaphragm heave. 

Rick chokes back the bile, feeling it burn his esophagus, a boiling hot snake that slithers back into the pit of his stomach. He can taste it on the back of his tongue and it mingles in the worst way with the walker blood. 

The RV shudders beneath him, rocking side to side as walkers slam their hands against it. It's all just clawing, groaning and yowling, like a thousand cats in heat. They're too weak to climb up after him but, they're not dumb enough to leave their potential meal, either. 

Rick shifts his legs under him, getting stiffly to his feet. His hatchet is just in front of him. He only needs to walk over, pick it up, and then get his ass back in the RV. He just needs to hand it to Negan, play his little game. Bow his head and grit his teeth, listen to whatever shit he has to say, and then he can leave this behind him. 

Orange lights draw his attention, through the smoke and the haze, they draw him up to his full height, hatchet forgotten. A breath is punched from his chest when realization slams into him with the full force of a barbed wire bat. 

They never stood a chance. The Saviors knew the endgame all along, all they had to do was make them believe, draw them along a little trail of carefully placed breadcrumbs, make them split up and then swoop in, talons open. 

The barricade in the middle of the road is nearly reduced to ash at its center but, the sides are still piled high and burning. Rick had thought it was just meant to turn them around but, now he could see it was a beacon, big enough and bright enough to draw every walker from miles around. 

He turns, facing the bridge. A walker claws at the air, hanging from an iron length of chain. It's the same man they'd watched die, tossed over the side of the bridge and left to choke right before their eyes. It was more than a warning, it was a promise. 

Rick stares, watching as it pitifully reaches for him, jerking about in mid air. 

This never should have happened. Rick braces his hands on his knees, feeling weak, everything catching up to him at once. Grief builds in his chest, gripping his lungs and his throat and his heart. 

He falls to one knee, buckling beneath the pressure and bracing a hand against the roof for support. He can barely hold himself up and his throat seizes, a spasming in his chest starts up that echoes the quake in his limbs. He tucks his chin to his chest and curls in on himself further. 

“Bet you thought you were all gonna grow old together.” 

He brings a fist up, to twist at the fabric of his jacket, pushing it into his middle with a bruising force as if he's trying to physically hold himself together. 

“Sitting around the table at Sunday dinner and the happily ever after… But, no- doesn't work like that, Rick.” 

He drops his head, pressing it against the cold metal. 

“Not anymore.” 

He curls in on himself, as tight as he can in a fetal position, as if he could force himself small enough to hide from the world. As if he could close his eyes and pretend that this was all a bad dream, just a nightmare. 

“Think about what happened.” 

He falls to his side, bringing his knees up as if he could drive them through his own chest. Hands gripping at each other, gripping at his shirt, nails digging in cruelly, looking, searching for something as they press into his sternum but, finding nothing and left to squirm. 

A small whimper leaves his mouth and he clamps a hand over it, trying to force it back down his throat. He shakes, his ribs rattling and spasming against the effort to keep himself silent. 

“People died Rick, it's what happened. Doesn't mean the rest of them have to.” 

The voice chases away the gripping despair, replacing it with a sweeping, all consuming numbness and Rick rolls on to his back, unfurling his limbs, foot nearly hanging off the edge of the RV. He stares up at the sky, so blue and peaceful, and he thinks bitterly that it has no business being so serene. He thinks to himself that hell shouldn't be this beautiful. 

“Get my ax.” 

The weight of Negan's words are like hands around his neck. Rick looks to his right, the hatchet rests there inches from his nose. He manages to heave his body over, onto his stomach and slowly pull his knees up under himself. 

“Thought you were the guy, Rick.”

His heart is frozen over, each inhale treads on thin ice, threatening to send him plunging back into the frigid waters of despair. 

“Maybe you're not.” 

He looks at the horizon and then his hands, lips moving to form silent names, pleas and prayers. 

“We'll give it one more go. Now, I really want you to try this time.” 

Rick shakes his head and inhales sharply, his hand forming a fist as he lowers his head. Even with Negan's voice muffled, even with the space separating them, he can feel every word, can practically see Negan standing in front of him. 

“Last chance. Bring me my ax!”

The sharp discharge of a gun doesn't register in Rick's mind until his body starts to move on its own accord. He grabs up the ax and runs in the opposite direction of the rapidly encroaching bullet holes, leaping without hesitation off the edge of the roof. 

He wraps his arms around the suspended walker like a lifeline. It snaps at his face but, he's too far away, clinging to its lower torso effectively trapping it's arms against its side. All it can do is flail, weakly jostling him as he tries to keep a desperate hold on the hatchet. He looks down, feeling a tug on his foot and walkers swarm beneath him, reaching and grabbing for every part of him.

He slips down with a panicked shout, working harder to keep his grip but, with so many hands he's still losing inches. Nails scrape at his ankles and fingers dig into his calf, and the hatchet falls from his sweaty palms.

A disturbing, ripping squelch echoes in his ears and he looks up. He's slowly decapitating the walker and it's bringing him down, closer to biting mouths and hungry growls. He tries to shimmy up further, kicking his feet at those below, he can feel the graze of teeth through fabric and his efforts double. 

He's intimately aware of his chances of survival. 

Gunshots rent the air again and he feels a bullet graze his calf, hot and fast but, to his relief the walkers thin out from the rain of bullets. It's just in time, because his lifeline gives out, head cleaving from its body and he hits the ground, falling back first onto a pile of rot and death. 

The gunfire ceases and Rick looks dazedly up at the sky. 

“Clock is ticking, Rick.” 

Think about what can still happen. 

A hand paws at his chest and he thrusts out a fist, catching a walker in the skull, the decaying bone folding like wet cardboard. It reminds him of how easily Abraham's skull had caved in. 

He lashes out at the walkers that enclose on him, many crawling out from beneath the pile he'd landed on. On hands and knees he swipes, kicks and punches, a desperate, vicious and crazed animal. Each bone that gives beneath his hand, each snap and crunch invades his mind with a picture of his friends, his family, all dead. 

Flesh gives way to solid ground, then patches of grass and still he crawls, fingers desperately feeling for the hatchet, eyes straining to see through the haze. 

He sees it, scrambling those last few feet, and he grasps the handle. He pauses, squeezing the wood as hard as he can. A walker growls behind him, shuffling steps moving closer. Anger floods his veins and he lets it. Letting it consume him until his vision turns red and he plunges himself into its mindless comfort. 

Rick lurches around, bringing the hatchet down through the walker's skull. He swings so hard that it sends him stumbling to the side with the momentum. He recovers swiftly, the rage melting away just enough for panic to rear it's head as he searches the area for any glimpse of the RV. 

Rapid beeps of a horn answer his desperation. Negan's helping him, once again, and suddenly he's a match dropped in kerosene. He hacks anything that moves, angry shouts and snarls answering every growl in his direction. 

His other hand grabs for anything within reach, finding a mark and holding it in place as he swings down again and again and again. Cold, foul blood sprays across his face from the force of his blows. 

His back hits a hard surface and he's jolted into reality. He turns, pawing along the length of the RV, hatchet swinging in front of him as he searches for the door. He sees that little silver square come into view and he dives for it, tugging at the handle, only to dent the metal with a fist when the door doesn't budge. A sound leaps from his throat, an awful thing somewhere between a shriek and a curse. 

A walker dives at him, grabbing for his right hand where it's braced against the RV. Before he can pull away something sharp encloses the palm and he rips his hand away, a moment too late as he feels pain lance up his arm and his skin breaks with a gush of warmth. 

It forces him to drop the hatchet. He stares dumbly at the red crescent moon maring his right hand, blood oozing out as pain pulses in time with the thudding in his ears. 

The walker snaps at him again and he can see the fresh blood on it's yellow, rotting teeth. He tucks his hand against his chest, backing away and grabbing up the hatchet in his left, swinging wildly. 

A noisy clatter sounds behind him and bullets go flying, punching into the undead around him and he drops low on instinct. The moment it stops, he throws himself up the steps through the open door. 

He slams it behind him, not even looking up at Negan as he bends over double, breathing hard. The wound on his hand aches and bleeds, his mind stops and stutters as it races to process what that means. It sinks in slow, too slow and the clock ticks, each second bringing him closer and closer to his demise. He refuses to accept it as reality. Not now, not after all of this. 

Rick tilts his head up, Negan stands, still clutching the gun, with a smug little tilt on his lips. Rick stands up straight, stepping closer and Negan holds out a gloved hand, palm up and expectant. 

He knows Negan won't just take it from him. This is about him doing it willingly, this is about him returning the hatchet to it's new and rightful owner. Rather aggressively, he slams the handle into the gloved palm. 

“Attaboy!” 

Negan says the word like he's praising a dog who just learned how to fetch. He smiles, a wide approving thing that shows all his teeth, and proceeds to lodge the hatchet back into the table, this time coated in all manner of stinking rot. 

Rick falls heavily into the booth, shielding his right hand with his left, covering the bite wound because he thinks perhaps if the world can't see it, then it can't be true. 

He can feel himself shaking, so violently his teeth chatter and it's suddenly too cold. Fresh sweat breaks out against his skin and he sinks down further in the booth, overwhelming dizziness spinning his vision into a kaleidoscope. It's too fast, he thinks, it shouldn't be this fast. His heart is pounding so loud, he can't hear and his limbs feel like they're stuffed with static, numb and singing with too much sensation all at once. He groans, eyes fluttering closed and head lolling back, knocking against something solid with a dull thud. 

He shuffles his feet, boots scraping noisily as he moves his limbs simply to try and ground himself, even the black behind his eyelids is moving too much. 

There's a whistle in his ears, a high pitched ringing that stabs into his brain. He blinks, struggling to pull his head up. He has to stay focused, Negan is still in the RV, he has to make sure it was enough. He has to make sure they live. 

A snapping echoes like a thunder clap right next to him. His eyes flutter open to see a hand snapping right in front of his nose, he goes cross eyed focusing on it and he groans at the nausea that overtakes him. 

“Hey...hey! We are not finished.” 

It sounds like it's so far away and he can see Negan's face, swimming in his vision, across the table and out of focus. He lets his chin fall against his chest and he stares at his limp hands on his lap, the bite mark glaring up at him.

“Rick!” 

A gloved hand grips his chin, forcing his head up with a bruising grasp and it sends him into a vertigo tailspin.

“This isn't nap time, prick. So unless you want more people to die-” Negan releases his jaw, and Rick's head bobs for a moment from the sudden loss, “I suggest you get your shit together in the next three seconds.” 

Rick licks his lips, head wobbling and mouth opening and closing, air pushing out past clenched teeth. He tries to get his tongue to work but, it's like cotton in his mouth. He simply does his best to nod but, it's more like a shitty attempt to just rock his whole body. 

“Are you really going to make me count?” 

Rick shakes his head, his lips twitching over his gums as he tries to work his jaw loose. He feels so sick, everything aches and he can't stop himself from crying, a weak shattered little thing that moistens his eyes and threatens to spill down his cheeks. He just wants to go home, spend the last moments he can with his kids. He doesn't want Negan to be the last person he ever sees. 

“Three…” 

“...Plea…” He breathes out the half word, and tries to keep his eyes straight and his head up but, for all the world he just wants to curl up on the ground and shut his eyes. 

“Two…” 

“... Nuh…” He catches himself falling sideways, temple nearly bashing against the window and his cheek brushing the blinds with a noisy rattle. He manages to throw an arm up on the table top, hunching over it and trying to brace himself. He tries not to throw up, blinking rapidly as he stares down at the white surface beside his hand. It doesn't seem to satisfy Negan. 

“One…” 

He can't stop his head as it falls into the crook of his elbow. It's too heavy, so, so heavy. His eyelids drop closed and for a moment he slips away, forgetting the world. 

A loud, thunderous slap to the table jolts him awake just in time to see Negan rise to his feet. The fear gives him strength and he throws out his right hand, grasping weakly at Negan's jacket. 

Words dribble from his mouth in a feverish babble. Rick's arm drops, falling onto the hatchet handle and slipping down it's length until his wrist bumps into the cold, blood covered head. It hangs there for a minute, and Rick looks at his arm in a daze, wondering why it suddenly won't move no matter how much he tries. 

A bone crushing grip grabs up the limb and he's yanked forward, chest crashing into the table edge. He flails about weakly for a moment, trying to pull his arm away and push at the table top with his free hand. His brow creases with the utmost concentration as he tries to think past the fire in his brain. 

“You got bit.” Rick nods, eyelids fluttering and mouth working to say something, anything. The grip slackens and his arm falls with a dull lifeless thud. 

He draws his arm back towards himself, slow and deliberate, talking all of his willpower. His head falls against the window this time, and he doesn't catch himself, just stares through the slats of the blinds, watching as hands like shadow puppets dance across the glass. The cold feels so nice against his forehead and he lets himself slip into it, feeling the barest hints of reprieve. 

Clattering and banging forces him to turn his head to see Negan searching through the overhead cabinets. Rick watches as the man curses and throws various items, all clanging to the floor, each harsh sound sending a bolt through his temple. He wants to tell him to sit the fuck down, just be quiet and leave him in peace. Scream and shout that he's done enough damage, demand that he let his people go. Instead, he shrinks into himself, squeezing his eyes so tight that colors explode behind them. 

Something, no someone, settles down in the booth beside him, close and warm, and he's caught between being too cold and too hot, fever clouding his mind and he presses his body closer to the window.

A hand grabs his own, pulling it away from himself with a gentleness unlike any he's experienced in the last twenty-four hours. The chemical stench of alcohol hits his nose a moment before electricity rips through his arm, an icy shock that tears through every nerve. 

Rick gives a panicked yelp, desperately pulling his hand away, eyes snapping open and body turning so he can better push against his attacker. He raises a half curled fist but, unfurls it upon seeing who holds his hand. 

He watches with a detached sense of self as Negan meticulously dresses the bite wound. Through the sickness, Rick feels utterly awkward and out of place sitting side by side with the man he'd sworn to kill. The man himself gently dabbing a clean square of gauze to the punctures that mar his skin in an ugly painting of reds, blacks and purples. 

“... Not-” Rick swallows, voice cracking and his throat refusing to cooperate, “Not gonna… work.” 

If Negan hears him, he doesn't make any indication, instead ripping a cloth with his teeth and wrapping the strip over the bite. After tying it tight, Rick watches as Negan just sits for a moment, a small frown on his face, brows dropped low and hazel eyes staring unfocused at Rick's bandaged hand. Rick blinks, as if the picture is just a mirage the fever has conjured up. The picture doesn't change and Rick tugs his hand out of the slack grip, all trembling arm and numb fingers, he lets it fall onto his thigh. 

He just stares at it, watching as it spins and drops out of focus, swaying even though he's sitting still. A white patch of cloth that sticks out against the sickly parlor of his skin. 

“I know.” It's a whisper and Rick trains his gaze back on Negan's face, the man staring straight ahead, lost in another time, another place but, the look is an unmistakable one of grief and it's definitely not for Rick. 

Rick looks back down at his hand, twisting the fingers into the denim of his jeans as nausea returns to him like a fist to the gut. He rocks back and forth, clenching his teeth and fighting to keep the insides of his stomach down. He doesn't realize Negan got up until he hears the engine turn over with a short sputter. 

A euphoric wave of relief washes over him that makes a pained smile spread across his lips and his heart soar in his chest. Negan is taking him back to the clearing, back to the other Saviors and more importantly, back to his family, the people he loves and God damn he wants nothing more than to see them, to tell them it's okay, that it will be okay. He can't die, not yet. 

The rumble and gentle sway of the RV nearly coax him into a light slumber if not for the occasional squealing of the engine and the smack of walkers run down on the road. Every time his eyes slip closed, he sees Carl, smiling and laughing and alive. He sees Judith, little arms outstretched towards him with a gurgling laugh. He sees Michonne, her warm eyes and her beautiful smile. 

The RV comes to a halt. He knows he doesn't have long left, the infection moving so fast through his system that each breath is becoming harder, each thought more muddled, each beat of his heart weaker and faster. 

Ignoring Negan's presence, he drags himself to his feet, stumbling and gripping on to every available surface to support himself. A renewed vigor in his veins at the prospect of what lies just beyond that door. 

He practically falls onto the latch, fingers catching on the metal and tugging until it gives way and he tumbles down the steps. He stumbles, using the door to hold himself up as he squints and hisses at the bright light that strikes his retinas. 

Rick blinks, eyes adjusting slower than usual and for quite some time all he sees is a blinding glare. Finally, he starts to make out the objects in the distance and he lets go of his support, falling to his knees and shuffling towards the silhouettes. 

It's oddly quiet. 

“Carl?” He raises a shaking hand to shield his eyes, “Michonne?” 

The blurry objects merge into one. It's just some trees and fence posts, miles of field stretching out beyond them as the sun climbs higher in the horizon. 

A quiet sob bubbles up in his chest, pushing past his lips. Negan steps in front of him, his shadow falling across him and blocking out the sun. 

Anger licks at his mind, furious and red, it floods his vision, a cascade of color that drowns out everything else. Rick lunges up at Negan, a wordless scream on his lips and a fist connecting with his face. He only stumbles back but, doesn't even raise a hand to block him or bring Lucille down on him. She just hangs at his side and that makes Rick angrier. 

“You fuckin’...” He throws punch after punch at Negan, “... Take me back.” Each hit gets weaker and weaker, and soon enough he's only hitting his chest with a pathetic half formed fist. “Take me back…” 

Whatever was keeping him standing suddenly evaporates from his body and his legs give out, he nearly falls into Negan, fingers catching on the man's shirt as he tries to hold himself up, tries to keep punching him, tries to keep hurting him. 

“Please…” He pleads, falling to the ground, hunching over his knees as his fingers dig into the soil ripping at the grass. 

“For what it's worth, I never meant for this to happen. People are a resource and you could've been a valuable one.” Negan drops into a crouch, Lucille resting across his knees and Rick can only stare at him, unseeing and delirious. 

“I really did plan on killing you, though.” Negan is dreadfully serious, no hint of a smile, no hint of mirth, just stating the facts as if he was relaying the weather. “That ‘ennie minie mo’ shit? That was just for show.” 

“But, then you had a son and I wasn't gonna kill you in front of your boy.” 

“Carl…” Rick thinks of his son. He thinks of what will happen when Negan returns without him. He hopes, no he prays that Carl will be able to move on, just as he did with Lori. He knows Carl will care for Judith. He knows Carl will be okay, eventually, he has to believe everything will continue, even without him. 

“So… I'm going to kill you here.” He stands from the crouch, removing a pistol from the front of his waistband, the one that Carl had stolen, “Quick and clean, out of the goodness of my heart, so your son doesn't have to witness that shit.” 

“No.” Rick shakes his head, “ No, no… no.” He can't stop himself from repeating the word, as if it will stop the pathogen in his blood, as if it will change Negan's mind. 

“Your people will live, so long as they do what they're told.” Negan walks behind him, the gravel crunching ominously and Rick wants to turn to face him, wants to watch death as it deals it's final blow. He can't. He can only look out at the fields, as tears build and tumble down his face and he thinks he should try and get away but, he's stuck, held fast by an unknown force. “I really am sorry.” 

Rick grits his teeth, a bitter laugh escaping him as he blinks away tears. He thinks that a man like Negan could never be sorry, not really. A strange sense of calm overwhelms him, a peace that he hasn't felt in a long, long time. “Just… just do it.” 

No sooner do the shaky words pass his lips when a deafening bang rings out, and his world crashes to black.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big fucking oof.


	2. The Day will Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Because this is how we survive...We tell ourselves that we are the walking dead." - Rick Grimes, Season 5 Episode 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brief mention of Rape/Non-con

There is nothing.

Rick thinks that he really shouldn't be aware of the oblivion. He thought death would be different than this. Perhaps, some pearly gates, some reunion with his deceased loved ones, or perhaps at the very least he would just cease to exist, that he wouldn't even comprehend his own afterlife because he would no longer have any consciousness to do so.

This is just nothing and he is utterly and painfully aware of it. That nothing stretches on for so long that for a brief second he forgets that he used to be alive. He forgets that he was once Rick Grimes. He forgets what the world looked like, what it felt like, what it smelt like. He forgets people and places, and suddenly he is just as nothing as the nothingness around him.

And then there is something.

It's a light that yawns and chases out the darkness, illuminating his world until he's blinded by it. It's so bright that for a moment the world is nothing again.

He squints his eyes, a heavy hand raised up to block the light and he looks through the gaps to see the halo of the sun glaring, bright and full. He doesn't remember who he is, or why he is, or where he is.

He doesn't even know what he is. He continues forward, vision clearing and feet shuffling loudly on the leaf litter. Everything is cloudy, unclear shapes and edges and something rumbles his chest, vibrating against his ribs and shaking his heart.

For a long time, all he hears is the loud crunch that follows each lurch forward.

Crunch, crunch, crunch.

His arms hang at his sides and his head droops limp on his neck, chin to chest and bouncing with each step. He keeps going. Even when he bumps into something solid and it makes him stumble back, even when something catches his feet and he falls, he keeps going.

There's no sensation beyond sight, and sound and smell. He doesn't know the cold, or the warmth or the fabric that hangs by threads on his limbs. He only knows to move, never lifting his feet from the ground, never changing direction. Something in him draws him along, like a puppet on strings, invisible threads that carry him along and he doesn't know to fight it.

A sweet, sickly smell hits him and suddenly he's on fire. His mind burns, and his stomach aches and he doesn't know hunger like this. He needs something. Something in him whispers and screams, telling him that if he finds the source, he can stop the pain. That things will go quiet and he can rest.

He breaths, a ragged unnecessary thing if only to taste the air. Each breath pushes out of him with a rattle, a low keening sound that trails off into a long silence before it starts all over again.

The air is thick with the smell and he tries to move faster, he's close and he can feel his fingers flex in anticipation. He's pushed and pulled forward and in his haste he stumbles, angry hands grabbing at the earth and pulling him closer. He can hear something, flesh tearing with a wet squelch and he crawls faster, reaching with one hand for the source.

He doesn't feel his skin give way beneath sharp rocks, roots and twigs. Something catches, and for a moment he's held in place, just out of reach. He thrashes, tugging and pulling and he doesn't hear the ripping fabric. He can only see red, a cloudy visceral thing and he scrabbles for it, a desperate animal that snaps at the air and voices its distaste.

Whatever holds him, gives and he collapses hands thrust into his quarry, fingernails ripping and clawing. It coats his arms, slicking his skin and where his fingers touch coarse fur he rips it away until there's nothing but red and it fills his vision. Everywhere it touches him, he's on fire and his middle is so empty, a chasm that screams and demands to be filled.

He snaps the obstacles in his path, inedible,  hard, and white, all of it tossed aside or bent out of the way with a satisfying crunch. He dives for what spills out from behind all of it, fleshy membranes and organs that he gathers up as fast as he can.

Some fall from between the gaps in his fingers and he shovels it up from the ground, leaf litter and all. He bites into it, forcing as much of it as he can into each mouthful.

He hunches over, one hand braced against his quarry, his prize and his alone, while the other works to bring more of the red to his stomach. The fire in his mind begins to extinguish with each swallow, each sweet drop on his tongue and the spongy texture torn on his teeth.

A growl breaks through his frenzied state and he snaps his cloudy gaze up to watch as something approaches his meal. It falls to its knees, across from him, rotting hands reaching and grabbing and taking what belongs to him. It's stench reaches his nose and he curls his lips, baring his teeth at the intruder. It smells of rot and death and he doesn't want it here.

It is nothing like the smell that's smeared on his hands and his chin, it's not fresh, or sweet, or enticing. It makes him hunch over the red and snarl, swiping a hand at this imposter, fingernails catching flesh and dragging soft, brittle skin from it's skull, exposing that white beneath. There is no red, just yellows, and purples, blacks and greens. It's decay and it's waste. It doesn't deserve the red.

He leaps, hands thrown out to shove it to the ground. It gnashes weakly at him as he digs his fingers into its eye sockets, hands pressing into its cheeks, pushing them in. Whispers, promises, and images flash in front of him and he screams, an ear piercing thing as he tries to drown it all out. He just wants it gone.

The skull caves in beneath his palms with a final heave. He doesn't move, eyes blinking and desperate as if trying to clear the cloudiness from his vision, as if for the first time he realized it wasn't supposed to be there.

He's quiet, all of him, even his mind. There is no burning, no desire, no hunger. There is peace, a quiet settling over his mind and his vision begins to clear until he can make out every detail of the thing beneath his hands.

He recoils, falling over himself to scramble away, his fingers removing from the crushed skull and brain with a nasty suction. It's a pile of blackened, rotting flesh where a head used to be. He kicks the body away from himself, and wipes the foul smelling blood and matter off on the ground.

His hands sink into something cold and slick as he backpedals and sharp edges catch his forearms. He shoots to his feet at the sensation and breathes in sharply as he turns to see what he'd landed in. The smell hits him a second later, a putrid thing mingling with a heady sweetness that slams him head first into a metaphorical wall. Awareness sweeps through him, he stumbles, the back of a fist brought to his mouth as he braces a hand against the rough bark of a tree.

 

He remembers.

 

Rick can feel, again. He feels the blood as it congeals on his face and he can feel flesh caught between his teeth, a heavy metallic tang on his tongue. He's cold and shivering his clothes torn, his jacket missing and red coats nearly every inch of him, freezing him to his core.

He wraps his arms around his middle, skin sliding against skin, slick with blood rather than sweat and he hunches over. Rick looks about himself, eyes landing on the dead walker and then the carcass a few feet from it. It's a deer, ripped open and ribs snapped so they point skyward. Organs and viscera mixing with the leaves beneath it as one dull eye peers lifelessly into the heavens.

His stomach feels heavy, it's too full and he feels sick at the sensation. Years of only ever eating just enough to curb hunger riots against the sudden gluttony. Hunger lingers, however, a small thing in the back of his thoughts and he shakes his head violently against it. Nausea climbs up his throat, rising alongside a sense of confusion and dread.

It's hazy, like trying to recall a distant memory from childhood but, he knows exactly what sits in his stomach.

A gunshot cracks, thunderous and ricocheting in his ears.  Rick flinches and something in his brain tries to claw its way back to the forefront. A cloudy halo swarms his vision for a moment until he blinks and wills it away. It's a desire to chase the noise until it's under his hands and then rip at it until skin gives and-

He shuts his eyes, a hand on his temple as he shakes his head. He presses his fingers down, nails cutting little crescent moon indentations into the skin. It's a dull sensation, like the pain of if is muffled. It's there but, it's not right.

He waits, just breathing for a moment until his thoughts settle and become his own. He sinks into the familiarity, thinking of home, of the people he loves, of the people he's lost. He thinks human things, shying away from the taste on his tongue and the weight in his belly.

Rick looks about himself for a moment, searching for any recognizable landmark, but only seeing tree after tree. He looks up at the sky, seeing the sun shine directly above him, filtering harshly through the canopy. He doesn't know how many days have passed. He doesn't know where he is but, he's alive.

He smiles, a little shaky thing. He fucking lived. He doesn't begin to question it, doesn't dwell on the how and the why or even the yawning nothingness, he's afraid of what conclusions he might come to. Instead, he revels in it, clings to it like a lifeline and yearns for the small things he took for granted.

Rick moves towards where the trees seem to thin out, using the occasional trunk as a crutch when the world seems to sway or shake. He sees a field, shining stalks of gold broken up by the burnt out skeleton of a car. He squints, he thinks he can see something-

 

A gunshot rings out.

 

Rick's pushed backwards, recoiling as something pierces his shoulder, entering and exiting with a hot flash of lightning. Muscle memory makes him suck in a sharp breath, more in shock than in pain, as he braces a palm against it, taking a step backwards and looking down at the ragged hole punched there. Red oozes out, sluggish and slow like syrup, seeping onto his fingers and mixing with the less viscous red on his hand and chest.  

He lifts his hand away, opening and closing his fingers, scrutinizing the odd liquid with narrowed eyes.

“Rick?”

It's a voice he never thought he'd hear again.

“M…” Rick swallows, the name is caught in his throat as he lowers the hand back to the bullet wound. He presses his other fist into his thigh, “Mi...chonne.”

The last part drops off into a stuttering shush. He shakes his head, an angry chuff escaping through his mouth. He licks his lips and works his tongue against the back of his teeth, feeling the uneven bumps lodged there and tasting them, a bittersweet poison tingling on his taste buds. He knows her name, he knows her face, those eyes, those lips, that worried crease in her brow. Michonne… He knows her, he knows her… Why is it so hard to hold onto that?

She's talking, her voice soothing and he stares at her mouth, watching the words form and fall onto his deaf ears. He thinks she's apologizing, or asking him something he can't tell.

He coughs, opening his mouth, numb throat working to form words again, only for gentle fingers on his cheeks to stop him. Rick startles at the feather-light touch, feeling her fingertips catch on the sticky, drying blood on his cheeks.

“... you're alive.” Michonne whispers it, just a soft sound under her breath, a thumb brushing below his eye that forces a shaky exhale from his mouth. He tries to bring his own hand up, to cover hers, to feel, to know she's real.

His hand is suddenly trapped against his body, held in place as Michonne pulls him into a bone crushing embrace. She pulls him so close, it's as if she's trying to absorb him into her very being. Quiet sobs sound in his ear and he manages to wriggle his hand free to grasp at her, fingers twisting into the fabric of her top as he buries his face into the hollow of her shoulder.

Just as he's trying to pull her closer he finds himself trying to hold himself up, desperate and shaking as he collapses to his knees. She falls with him, letting him go and Rick keens sideways, panting harshly as he braces an elbow against the ground, hissing loudly from between clenched teeth.

It hurts. Pain slamming into him from every direction. His shoulder, his head, his eyes, everything feels as if he's been lit up, electrocuted, set on fire. His stomach is worst of all, it's caving inward, collapsing in on itself and twisting into a thousand knots.

Rick groans, the sound tapering off into a whimper as he rocks forward trying desperately to curl onto himself.

“Rick?” Michonne's hands grab at his shoulders and run their course over every available surface, searching frantically for a cause. “Rick? Oh, God-”

Something in the touch sets off a reaction in him and he snaps, for just a moment, a split second that he dips, going under, vision clouding and mind empty. He snarls, a full, feral thing, teeth bared as he shakes off her hands and digs his fingers into the hole in his shoulder. The pain fades, like a bow being drawn only for it to snap abruptly back into place. It ricochets through him and sends him rocketing into awareness, staring up at those scared, warm eyes and tear stained cheeks.

Strong hands grab for him again, one gently moving his hand away from it's firm hold on his shoulder, and he lets it fall away. She studies it for a second and he watches her face, he watches the slight twitch of a frown and her temple bulge as she clenches her jaw. Rick stares and Michonne's eyes flicker to meet his for a moment, holding his gaze until dark eyes break away to sweep across his body.

“We have to get you back to Alexandria.” She grinds it out, slinging his good arm over her shoulder, keeping a secure grip on his waist as she heaves him up.

Rick looks down at himself, his missing jacket and his pants far beyond repair. He notices his feet for the first time, scratched and blistered to all hell, not even a scrap of his boots on them. He's so covered in dirt, grime and blood he can't tell if he's injured beyond the obvious. He can only imagine how bad it must look to Michonne and he can really only begin to guess what she must think happened.

“I'm fine.” Rick tries to move away from Michonne, suddenly self conscious about using her as a crutch. It's only a shoulder wound, his damn legs still work. He takes a few wobbly steps, ankles rolling and knees giving until he throws a hand out to the side and locks his legs to stop them from quaking. He hisses a curse under his breath before turning to look over his shoulder with a weak smile. “See? … ‘M fine.”

Michonne levels him with an unsatisfied stare and she steps forward, moving beside him and resting a hand on his waist, “Let me help you.”

It's not a suggestion and Rick doesn't try and brush her off again, instead he lets her lead him, a steady hand pressing him close to her as he swings his arm across her shoulders. They walk side by side, step for stumbling step, the golden stalks parting for them with a gentle swishing crunch and the dry drone of insects.

He thinks that he'd be just fine to walk on his own, he's just a bit shaken and weak but, the more he recalls the more reluctant he is to let go. He's scared this is just some dream, a mirage, but it stays real so long as he can feel the warmth of another person on his skin and hear them breath and move and live.

Michonne sets him down gently on the hood of the burnt out car, slipping out from underneath the limp arm he still has draped around her. He drops his hands into his lap, thumb brushing over the palm of the opposite hand and catching on the fabric there. That damn cloth remains, rust stained from fresh and drying blood. He thinks about removing it, ripping it off to distance himself from Negan as much as possible but, he's afraid of what he might see underneath it.

Instead, he closes his hand into a fist and squints out across the field. He can see a walker, stumbling out from the distant tree line, the very same one he'd come from. It's too far away to be a real threat and Rick just watches it, a small flicker of anger sparking in his chest when he spots the fresh meat dribbling down its chin.

He can feel his lip twitch and his nostrils flare, fingers flexing against the brittle hood of the car, his nails scraping quietly as he moves to stand up. Like a tunnel, his vision narrows, clouding at the edges and he swears he can hear its raspy growls and smell its putrid stench.

A firm hand stops Rick, pushing him back into his seat and he startles, vision clearing with a rapid blink. Fingers prod at his left shoulder and he watches as Michonne manages to secure a tattered strip of his own shirt across the wound, “Negan said you were dead...”

Michonne trails off, the barest hint of confusion narrowing her eyes before it disappears just as she ties the last knot. Her hands linger resting feather light and unsure.

Rick ghosts over the makeshift bandage fingers brushing hers, it radiates a dull pain, dim and dying like a fire on its last coals. He doesn't know how to tell her that Negan is right, he was dead; was being the imperative factor.

He stares up at her, she just seems to scrutinize him, eyes flickering over his body and settling back on his face. The growl of the lone walker draws closer and the silent exchange between them ends with a soft grunt as Rick shifts himself forward, reaching for the proffered palm.

“Sorry, I didn't bring an extra pair of shoes.” She nods to his bare feet, adjusting the strap of the rifle bag across her chest, her sword hung right beside it. He gives a half-hearted smile at her words but it drops away when he tilts his head, lifting an eyebrow at the sight of the bag. It's odd to see her carrying any other weapon than her katana.

“Were you practicing?” The words are raspy, almost whisper like, working past a throat that feels as if it's stuffed with cotton. She doesn't respond but, he can see her jaw working and the corner of her mouth twitch as she watches the walker come closer.

The thing shuffles within a few yards and Rick watches as she draws her sword and steps forward, thrusting it through the decaying skull. He can't help but stare at the bright red caught in it's teeth and it makes his stomach roil and froth, a small flicker of nausea warring with hunger for a split second. He raises a hand to his middle as if to ward it away.

“Let's go.” Michonne lets the body fall with a dull thump, flicking the blood off the blade before sheathing it. He wants to ask more, wants to know why she was out here, what had happened after the Saviors, if everyone was okay but, his words stay caught in his chest and she stays just as quiet.

Michonne lets him walk on his own, albeit hovering next to him, the line of her body nearly pressing into his as her hand hovers at the small of his back.

He only stumbles a few times, Michonne steadying him as he curses at the numbness in his feet, making him unsure of his steps. It's relatively quiet, no more walkers popping up, the only sound is the crunch of debris under foot or the skittering of glass on asphalt as Michonne kicks the shards out of his path.

He can see the walls of Alexandria in the distance, rising like pillars of salvation and promising him a joyful reunion with his family, his people, his home. The elation nearly drowns out the drone of concerns in his mind, demanding his attention and nothing screams louder than the sweet copper taste in his mouth and the fur caught under his fingernails.

He can't think about that now, that's a problem for later, for after.

Rick finds himself walking faster and faster, unheeded by the faint pinpricks of glass or the metal shrapnel from the cars that litter the road embedding into the soft soles of his feet. He can see the front gate, standing open, beckoning him forward. He doesn't stop to think that it shouldn't be standing open and unattended. He doesn't stop to think that the trucks and vans forming a line out the gate are odd. He just wants to be home.

It consumes his mind with such ferocity that he forgets nearly everything else, the desire licking at his brain like a match dropped in kerosene.

Just as he passes the rolling gate a hand snags his shoulder, “Rick, wait!” Michonne's warning is sharp, hissed into his ear as she pulls him back behind one of the vehicles.

He tries to shrug her off, but her thumb only digs in, a steady pressure on his collarbone that keeps him in place as she moves him behind her, unoccupied hand hovering at the hilt of her sword as she peers around the corner of the moving van.

If he was in his right mind, he would have been far more perceptive to what was happening, he would have heard the low voices of a conversation and the metallic clack of guns against their owners backs as they moved about.

Right now, all he sees is an obstacle to his goal. He growls, vision flashing red as he digs his nails into the hand holding him, scratching and clawing until the pressure lets up. It happens rather quickly, faster than he'd anticipated and he doesn't stop to see the surprise on his captor’s face or the bloody marks he left on her skin.

“Rick!” Michonne's shout falls on deaf ears and he slips past her, he forgets who she is and only knows that he needs to be far away from her in case she tries to stop him again.

He runs, or tries to, it's more of an awkward gallop, his chest heaving and staring past the people that move to halt him, guns and voices raised. He pushes past them, more hands grabbing for him but, slipping or jumping away when he snaps at them with an open mouth and red stained teeth.

“Shit is that a walker?”

“Not unless they started talking.”

“Leh me gu'...He mutters, repeating something nearly unintelligible, pushing it out with each pant. He shoves at the cold barrels of guns that push into his face and he twists away from the punches, some landing while others glance by him. Shouts mix and mingle, flying over his head and his ears ring a sharp train whistle that drowns out almost everything.

“Hey, stop this asshole!” A voice rises above the ringing in his ears and he focuses on it, only for his world to grind to a halt at the sight of Simon storming towards him. He could never forget that mustache, that thinning hairline and cruel dark eyes, or that cocky self assured walk as if he was trying to fill a role that he wasn't made for as he made them all kneel in the gravel, waiting for the real man behind it all to step out. This was Negan's puppet, his right hand man who tried his best to be as charismatic and charming as the man himself but, fell short in every aspect making him appear more like a caricature than a man.

All long limbs and long gait and a too long smile to match, like everything he saw was amusing. Rick is no exception, judging by the looks of things.

He watches, head tilted down but, eyes cast up to see Simon step right into his personal space. He can't help the small falter he takes backwards at the looming presence, only to feel metal press into his spine and a threat whisper into his ears. He can feel the tension climb with his hitching breaths and he curls his fists at his sides, nails catching on the cloth wrapped around his hand and he worries the textile beneath his fingers. He's caught in a dangerous tightrope walk between anger and fear.

There's bodies surrounding him and for a moment his mind skips backwards, reliving the second he'd ignored Michonne and hurt her to get away. He grits his teeth, fighting the urge to rub at his eyes and press at his temples. He doesn't know why he did something so stupid. Stupid gets you killed.

“Damn, aren't you a sorry sack of shit.” A low whistle punctuates the words and a low tut-tut fills the ensuing quiet. Rick cranes his head down, feeling Simon’s hot breath ghost against his forehead, curling against the cool of the viscera drying on his skin and matting his hair. He stares at his feet, bloodied and bruised and so alien compared to Simon's dusty boots in front of his toes. He feels a small pang of sadness at the loss of his own boots but, it's a momentary thing barely lasting more than a fraction of a heartbeat.

“Hey, asshole.” A hand snaps impatiently in front of his nose and Rick has half a mind to bite the fingers off. “Eyes up here.”

He flares his nostrils, refusing to turn his head up but instead looks at the man from the corner of his eyes, eyelashes obscuring his vision slightly. Good, he doesn't know what he would do if the image of that wide, white smile were any clearer.

“There we are, darlin’.” The patronizing drawl makes his skin crawl but, the fist that forces his chin up makes him reel back, violent discomfort shooting up his spine in a white-hot frenzy. Bruising fingers at his jawline keep him in place and air rushes out of his nose, noisily and panicked as his head is tilted side to side and Simon inspects him with the same air that one inspects cattle. “God-” It's a breathy chuckle, an attempt at the way Negan says the word but, Simon makes it sound more like a mockery, “-you look like shit; fucking smell like it, too.”  

Rick watches the man's nose scrunch up at the same time his smile gets impossibly wider, almost shark like with the amount of teeth that show.

“You got a name, asshole?” Rick's heart soars and sinks in a dizzying free fall at the question. Simon doesn't recognize him and he's glad for it, not exactly looking forward to confronting Negan. It makes him wonder how trashed he must look in order to be unrecognizable. Hell, Michonne had shot him thinking he was a walker.

He swallows, neck straining against the force of being at such an awkward angle. He doesn't answer, instead looking anywhere but Simon's face, staring down the rows of houses towards his own. He doesn't see the man's face drop, features slackening before morphing into sharp angles and heavy brows. He's yanked forward, nearly nose to nose with an uncharacteristically angry Simon and forced to look him in the eyes, he can see his own reflection glinting in them.

“I asked you a question.” He tugs against the hold, jaw working as he tries to turn away and not breath in the hot air of the other man's words. He says nothing, not wanting to reveal his identity to this man. He knows, for now, that he's better off a dead man to the Saviors.

“Alright.” Simon let's him go with a rough shove to his face, sending him stumbling back and rubbing at his jaw, eyes downcast but, seething with his lips curled and hissing between clenched teeth. “Have at him.” Simon points, a circular gesture aimed at the sky and everyone zeros in on Rick, like a mouse caught in a trap surrounded by five hungry cats. “Maybe we can loosen up those lips”

He tries to bolt, only for two arms to snake under his armpits and bring him crashing back onto a hard chest. He shouts, trying unsuccessfully to crack the back of his skull against his captors’ face. It doesn't work and he brings his legs up to kick them bodily into the leather clad man approaching him. The man stumbles back, wheezing out a curse and clutching at his bruised stomach.

“Fuckin’ bitch.” The man straightens up, setting the AK slung across his shoulders onto the concrete with a clatter, approaching with a face doused red in anger and cracking his knuckles, spitting at Rick's feet with a nasty snarl,“You'll pay for that.”

Rick readies himself to kick again, but a heel crunching the top of his foot stops him and he yelps, thrashing against the weight that traps him and trying to bring his knee up into the man's crotch as he cocks a fist back for a mean right hook.

He braces himself for the hit, ducking back as far as he can on instinct, chin tilted back and eyes closing.

It connects with the left side of his cheek, rattling his skull and snapping his head to the side so fast that he can feel the vertebrae scream in protest. The pain doesn't really come, instead radiating a sharp discomfort through his teeth and his cheekbone that fades just as fast. His vision doubles, clouding over and flickering red as his head lulls back, chin resting on his chest and eyes rolling as he tries to orient himself.

That familiar thing claws at his consciousness, hungry and snarling, begging for control. He nearly slips into it, feeling it start to thrum through his blood, curl his hands into claws, and sharpen his hearing until his brain lights on fire with each sound.

“Wait.” Michonne's voice pulls him back, dragging him out from under the oppressive sensation in his mind. He watches as she storms towards him, hands raised in a placating gesture and face firm with anger. The man who'd just decked him backs away, an unspoken begrudging deferment to the presence of authority as he casts her a dirty look but, otherwise allows her to pass.

The arms ensnaring him loosen and he wrenches himself from their grasp with a sharp huff and a quick shake, glaring over his shoulder at the blank face of the Savior who'd held him, he bites his tongue against angry words and closes his mind against the desire to hurt him. The man meets his gaze but, otherwise doesn't acknowledge him.

Michonne ushers him away, moving him out of the small throng of Saviors and nosy Alexandrians, a palm wrapped securely around his bicep and eyes hard as flint as she parts the crowd.

Simon cuts them off with a swift step into their path and Rick glances to Michonne, watching her tilt her chin up at the man and level him with a level of defiance that'd he'd never seen.

“Woah there, boss lady.” Simon shoves his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels, “Where do you think you're going?”

Rick feels her fingers dig into his muscles as he watches the muscle in her temple jump, “You're early.”

Early? He mouths the word, wondering just what kind of deal they'd made with the Saviors.

Simon grins, as if unphased by the venom in her voice and the question itself, “You know this rude asshole?”

“Found him while I was hunting.” It's short, sweet and to the point and Rick has to admire the fact that she's staying this calm when he knows all she wants to do is run him through.

Simon nods, as if mulling over the words for a minute and thinking them over with the utmost seriousness. He clicks his tongue and shifts his focus from Michonne to Rick, giving him a long look, “Guess you'll need the extra hands gathering shit for us.”

Simon steps closer, hands clasped behind his back as he leans forward ducking into Rick's line of vision. He glares, unfocused at the ground beyond Simon's left ear so he doesn't expect the light slap to his freshly bruised cheek, “Get him fixed up.”

The touch makes him jump to attention, searching for the threat. Instead, all he sees is Simon grinning down at him, “And teach him some fucking manners while you're at it.”

The way he says it makes Rick feel like a dog who's just pissed on the carpet. He doesn't feel like a person under Simon's gaze, more like a pest that's scampered into his house or a shiny little trinket stowed on a shelf, useless and taking up space but, novel nonetheless. The more he meets Simon's dark eyes the sicker it makes him and he can't fight the urge to look away.

Michonne tugs at him gently and he follows, brushing past Simon and he can feel the man's gaze on the back of his neck. He resists the sensation to shiver and instead fists a hand in the back of Michonne's shirt, grounding himself.

“Ah, one more thing.” Rick turns to see Simon hold out his hand, making a 'gimme’ gesture towards Michonne, “Your gun.”

Rick opens his mouth, about to protest and explain that they needed every weapon they had, in order to go on runs and defend themselves. A quick look from Michonne has him snapping his teeth together with an audible click.

Michonne hands the rifle bag over, practically throwing the thing at him so he has to scramble for one undignified moment to catch it, “That it?”

Simon looks a bit put off but, steps aside and Michonne drags Rick along, his ankles rolling at the unexpected movement. He nearly trips but, Michonne keeps him upright, murmuring a word of encouragement. The sheath of her sword clacks against his side and he's glad for the small mercy, that she was allowed to keep it. It still makes his skin itch at the notion of being defenseless, he can only assume that the Saviors are seizing every gun in Alexandria.

“Why're they here?” It's a stupid question and he knows it. Michonne just gives him a small shake of her head saying 'not now’. “What happened?”

Michonne keeps trudging on, if she notices his attempts to stop her she makes no indication, only pulling him faster and faster to the infirmary. At one point he realizes that she's keeping him on her left side, shielding him from the view of a large gathering of folks in front of the armory.

He chances a look across the street and instantly regrets it when he catches a glimpse of a red bandana and a baseball bat slung over a shoulder. Negan's faced away but, even so he can't stop the involuntary flinch at the sound of his raised voice drifting to his ears and all he can see is red spray across gravel and a thud crack across a cold night like a thunder clap.

Michonne pushes him through the infirmary door, closing it firmly behind her and looking out the window as if expecting someone to follow.

She leads him to the stairs, “I'll be back with someone to look at your shoulder.”

She looks back, glancing at the medical equipment and the gurneys, as if debating whether to stitch up the wound in his shoulder herself, “In the meantime… Get yourself cleaned up.”   

She pushes a flat palm against his chest resting her forehead against his, “If you hear anyone-” She pulls away, looking into his eyes with a silent plea, “Hide.”

“Michonne-” She slips away, the door closing quietly behind her and Rick stands there for a moment, warring between his need to chase after her and demand answers and the very real desire to scrub his skin clean, find a decent pair of clothes, and some new boots.

He turns, looking up the stairs and while they were normally something he didn't think twice about he dreaded going up them now. Using the rail as a lifeline, he clings to it, dragging himself up each step, invisible weights tugging at his ankles and his feet nearly slipping in their own blood.

After an obscene length of time he crests the top, bending double for a moment, hands braced on his knees as he tries to slow the spinning sensation behind his eyes and between his ears. It subsides and he makes his way to the bathroom, a hand ghosting along the wall just in case.

He sheds his clothes, or what's left of them, bunching them up and throwing them straight into the garbage can by the sink. His utility belt is the only salvageable item, the rest is ripped beyond repair and he wonders why he didn't realize he was walking around a little more than half naked until now. He notices the red footprints then, the one's he's tracked onto the pristine white tile but, he doesn't have the mind to clean them.

Rick finally looks at himself in the mirror, an unrecognizable face stares back at him with cold blue eyes, somehow brighter than he remembers. Dirt, mud, and blood cake his features and all manner of sticks and leaves are tangled in his hair as if he'd been dragged across the entire forest floor. Curls of his hair hang over his forehead, stiff and matted there with blood and sweat.

He reaches a hand up to his swollen cheek, prodding at the bruise formed there. It doesn't hurt beyond a dull throb when touched. It's odd and he opens his mouth, feeling his skin pull at the lump with only a stiff discomfort.

His hand moves to his teeth at the sight of them, red caught between the white with copper stains clinging to the ivory surface. He curls his lip back, running a finger along them and something sticky comes away. It's a piece of flesh with a bit of fur.

He spits, gagging as he turns the facet on and scoops water into his mouth like a man possessed, swishing the liquid around until the sweet metallic taste is replaced with the cool, chlorine aftertaste of the tap water.

He dry heaves, trying not to think about the deer and everything he can’t quite remember leading up to that. Scrunching his eyes closed and bracing his hands against the countertop, he leans forward, silver of the mirror kissing the top of his head with an icy touch.

He swallows, for the first time his throat feeling a little less like sandpaper. He doesn't feel dehydrated but, he knows that heavy, cotton sensation in the back of his esophagus makes it feel like he should be.

“Fuck…” He exhales, the weight of just how supremely fucked up everything is punching the air out of him. He wants to race down those stairs, out the door and to his house, the Saviors be damned. He just wants to hold his daughter in his arms and hug his son close but, he's scared. He knows something is wrong with him and the last thing he wants is to accidentally hurt his kids. It would destroy him.

He breathes in deep, composing himself before stepping into the shower stall and turning the water on. He wrenches the knob all the way to the left, feeling the spray turn from frigid to searing after a few seconds. It's hot, he knows it is but, it doesn't hurt. Steam curls around him so thick that he can't see through the glass of the shower door.

The water swirls down the drain, muddy and red and he strips the bandage off his shoulder the soggy fabric landing on the tile with a wet splat. He rubs at the wound, gently cleaning it by cupping water in his hand and letting it run through his fingers. When the dried blood flakes away he's surprised to see it’s stopped bleeding and even seems to be healing over, as if it were a couple days old not a few hours. He pokes at the healing skin, reaching around to inspect the exit wound to find it's closed up in a similar fashion.

Puzzled he looks at his, hand seeing the stained cloth still wound tightly there.  

He fiddles with the bandage, unwrapping it with a painstaking carefulness as water hits his face, stripping off the layers of blood and dirt.

It comes away, unceremoniously dangling in his fingers as he pulls the sopping wet thing off. He lets it drop, brushing his fingers over the puckered scar that's left behind with a panicked frenzy, pushing at the raised pink tissue.

“No…” He cries, a mournful, pitiful thing as he twists a fist in his hair and collapses with a thwack, ass first on to the tile, his back slamming into the shower wall.

He draws his knees in close, hand resting palm up across them as he drives his other hand into the ground, slamming into the tile knuckles first until the skin breaks open and he sees the fresh red trickle towards the drain.

It's real. The bite, the bullet to the back of the head, eating the fucking deer like… like some kind of walker. He laughs at the idea, that this must be some kind of elaborate cosmic joke.

He died and God decided to let him come back for laughs because what better way to punish Rick Grimes than to make him into the literal walking dead. Maybe he's still in that coma, still on that hospital bed, no apocalypse in sight, no virus or walkers just him and a machine keeping him alive.

No… That'd be too easy, he thinks.

He looks up, palm pressed to his lips and eyes searching the textured ceiling as if he'd get an answer. He can feel that presence in his mind, working at him like nails on a coffin lid and he knows what it is. He refuses to think of it by its name, to even acknowledge it beyond that thing. He can't make it real, not anymore than he already has.

“Rick?” A knock cuts through the splatter of water on tile and he jerks his head up. The stream's grown cold and he only realizes it by the lack of any condensation and the slightest chill against his skin.

He doesn't know how much time he's lost but, he's rather slow to move, stiff limbs and numb feet, he manages to turn the water off. On autopilot he slips out of the stall, toweling down with mechanical effectiveness and wrapping the soft cotton around his waist.

He catches his reflection, face and body clean except for that nasty bruise on his cheek, the half healed bullet wound in his shoulder and the array of old scars that litter his skin. The pink bite mark stands out like a brand on his right hand where he grips the towel. He moves it behind his back, hiding it from view.

The knock sounds again, and he knows it's Michonne because she always raps the door twice, soft and quick just enough to draw the attention of the occupant but, quiet enough to not draw unwanted attention. Right now, it sounds like a gunshot echoing in the bathroom and he ducks his head, shaking off the noise and chasing away the ringing that ratchets up in volume against his ear drums.

The door pushes open with a slow twist of the knob, a cautious thing as if testing the waters. Normally, they didn't much care for privacy, being on the road together they'd definitely seen their fair share of each other but, Alexandria had brought back that little human desire to have even the barest hint of normalcy.

He makes sure to keep his hand hidden, casting a quick look at the mirror and angling his body until it can't be seen in the reflection. He notices the bruise on his cheek too, it's now just a slight purple hue surrounded by a yellow ring beneath the skin and it seems less swollen than it was. The thought of finding Simon and his lackeys and ripping their throats out crosses his mind, a violent, vivid picture that flashes for just a second, all red and lacking humanity.  

Michonne doesn't step into the room, instead the door only opens enough for her to offer him a bundle of clothes over the threshold.

She gives him a quick once over, lingering on the bullet wound for half a second, “You clean up nice, Mr. Grimes.”

It's a teasing thing, meant to lighten the atmosphere and detract from the darker issues he knows they'll be discussing much too soon. Normally, he'd have something witty on the tip of his tongue instead he can't help down casting his gaze, a half hearted attempt at a smile twitching on his lips.

When he looks back up, her smile has fallen and concern worries the edges of her lips and crinkles the corner of her eyes. She doesn't say anything else and Rick regrets not trying harder to cover up his mounting anxiety, the scar on his hand burning as if to remind him it wasn't going anywhere.

He grabs the bundle, balancing it awkwardly in his left hand, “Thanks, Michonne.” His voice sounds much better in his ears now, less unintelligible garbling and more actual words and syllables.

“Rosita’s here”, Michonne tilts her head as if to gesture to the room behind her, “She says Tara taught her enough to check out that bullet wound.”

Michonne opens her mouth as if to add something else but, she seems to decide against it, opting to turn away and allow Rick to shut the door with his forearm.

He sighs, trepidation and relief mixing in his thoughts as he dresses, having no trouble other than a few bits of glass he has to pull out from the bottom of his feet before putting on his socks. He's fortunate that the cuts aren't really bleeding and doubly so that the socks are black.

He leaves his shirt partially unbuttoned, knowing that he’ll have to take it off enough for his shoulder to be looked at. When he looks in the mirror, he almost feels like nothing ever happened, like he's the man he was before the Saviors, before that walker bit him, and before Negan leveled a gun at the back of his head and pulled the trigger.

He runs a hand through his hair, feeling for any trace, any speck of evidence that a bullet scrambled his brains. He finds nothing.

He might think it was all some vivid nightmare if he were less inclined to acknowledge the obvious but, he’s not. He _knows_ it happened. In every second he stands there and every fiber of his being he knows it was- _is_ real.

Rick looks at his right hand. The bite runs across his lower pinky, forming a half circle all the way down the meat of his palm close to his wrist. He can see where the individual teeth left there mark and even where the skin was scraped back, pulled away as he wrenched his hand from the walker's mouth.

It's puckered and glaringly pink, more like a brand than the indentation a bite normally leaves. It's also completely healed, no sign of infection, no blood, no pain or warmth, just a scar like any other.

The overwhelming need to hide it surges up and tramples the voice of reason that tells him everyone is better off knowing, that the group needs to know, deserves to know for their safety. They always had an unspoken code about walker bites, you _always_ tell the group and you bite a bullet while you still can.

He's shot that to all hell because Rick Grimes doesn't know how to stay dead.

He fumbles around in the cabinets of the vanity until he closes a shaky fist around a roll of elastic bandage. Rick's going through the familiar motions of wrapping his hand when stomping feet pass by the door. He pauses, thinking they mean to come into the bathroom but, instead they head deeper into the connecting bedroom. He's using his teeth to cut the bandage when familiar hushed voices reach him.

They're whispers, meant to go unheard by him but, he can just make them out almost sounding uncharacteristically loud in his ears. He smoothes the end of the self adhering bandage down, making sure it covers the entire scar before he presses an ear to the door.

There's a beat of silence and the shuffle of feet.

“What happened?” Daryl's voice cuts through the quiet, sounding terse.

“I don't know.” Michonne placates with a level, confident tone.

“You said he got shot?” Rosita asks, Daryl responding to this with an indignant, “What?” It's clearly louder than the little group feels comfortable with, both Rosita and Michonne shushing him.

“ _I_ shot him.” Michonne pauses, “In the left shoulder, it went clean through.”

“Why?” Daryl shoots back, voice raised slightly in anger.

“I thought he was a walker.” Michonne shoots back, voice taking on that tone reserved for pointing out the obvious.

Daryl gives a small non-committal grunt. Rick thinks that the hunter must be thinking of the time Andrea fired at him for the same reason on the Greene farm.

“Negan said he was dead.” Rosita counters, clearly having trouble believing Michonne's words without actually seeing the evidence first.

“And I'm supposed to believe that son of a bitch?” Michonne hisses, low and dark, “Besides, he obviously didn't finish the job”

“Why would he do that?” Rosita’s anger is palpable and he barely manages to catch her mutter, “He killed Abraham just fine.”

“Does it matter?” Daryl shoots back, “We best keep 'em thinkin’ Rick's dead, if we wanna keep his ass alive.”

“Exactly.” Michonne agrees, “I don't know what Negan did to him but, he's…” Michonne hesitates, trying to find the right word, “Off.”

“Off? Ya’ mean like-” Rick can only assume that Daryl’s silence is because he made some vague gesture to insinuate he'd lost his mind.

“No. Not like the prison.” He can picture Michonne shaking her head, “More like a wounded animal.”

There's a pause and Rick swears his breathing is so loud they can hear him. He hates the pity he hears lacing Michonne's words.

“He collapsed when I first found him and when I tried to help him up, he lashed out at me…” Michonne trails off, “The second time, I tried to stop him from running into the Saviors.”

There's another lengthy pause.

Rick knows that she's showing them the angry scratches on her wrist, “I don't think he knew who I was. And then when the Saviors grabbed him… He seemed almost afraid.” Her voice wavers on the last word, as if it doesn't quite fit.

“Stopped that piece of shit from setting his goons on Rick.” Her voice drops, back into something angry and raring for blood, “They would've beaten him. They didn't even know who he was, didn't even give a shit- they just wanted to wail on a half dead man.”

Daryl makes a small sound in agreement, “Those assholes are real pieces a fuckin’ work.”  

“What do you think happened to him out there?” Rosita chimes in, her curiosity winning out and asking Michonne the million dollar question. He knows she's looking at the door and he tenses at the impossible notion that she can see straight through.

Rick has a vague inclination about what Michonne thinks happened but, he knows that none of them could even begin to guess the truth. He puts his hand on the doorknob, feeling that he's done enough eavesdropping, only to stop himself from turning it when Michonne speaks up.

“He was practically naked when I found him.” Her voice is quiet, so quiet that he holds his breath, straining to hear what she says, “His clothes were destroyed, just… hanging off him and he was covered in so much blood.” The last three words are ground out, like Michonne is clenching her jaw.

“Ya’ think-” Daryl's voice holds that same pity Michonne's does and it punches the air right out of Rick to hear it.

“I don't know.” Michonne cuts Daryl off before he can finish his question but, it remains heavy and unspoken between the three of them. Rick listens on with a sickening realization and he's infinitely glad that their assumptions aren't right.

“Negan seems the type.” Michonne says it with an air of knowing and disgust, like she has the man pegged for the worst of the worst, capable of such a human atrocity, like she's met men like Negan before- and Rick realizes she probably has.

His stomach twists, uncomfortable leaping knots that make his knees lock up and his eyes close. He doesn't even want to entertain the horrifying idea, images of Carl pinned under that Claimer work their way into his brain and he forces them out of his mind lest he lose himself in rage.

He'd dealt with rape cases, back before the end of the world, and as a cop it was always a careful balance between respecting the survivors wishes, following the due process of law and wanting to rip the rapist to shreds. It's a uniquely uncomfortable feeling to be on the other side, his family thinking he'd suffered such a trauma and not knowing how to approach it while he sits and listens in on them, thinking he won't hear a word.

He feels like a supreme piece of shit, guilt heating up his face and neck as he opens the door, being as noisy as possible in the process.

They watch him, all standing at the end of the bed, within ear and eyeshot of the bathroom but still far enough away for them to feel as if their conversation was private. They look like deers caught in the headlights, looking more like he'd caught them stealing extra rations than simply discussing his current condition.

He feigns innocence, pretending like he'd never heard them, running a hand through his damp hair, “Does Carl know I'm here?”

“No, he's with Judith.” Michonne answers, moving towards him but, stopping a comfortable distance away, arms crossed loosely, “Carl said he didn't want to leave her alone, in case the Saviors raided the house.”

“Good.” Rick nods, looking away from the intense scrutiny that all three direct at him, “Don’t need him to know, not yet.”

“Ya sure that's a good idea?” Daryl lifts an eyebrow, probably wondering why Rick doesn't want to see his kids, why he's suddenly the worst father in the world making his kids think he's dead when he's really just a few houses away. He can't risk it, not when the Saviors flood the street and his mind teeters on the edge of sanity. Not when things might get out of control. He needs to stay in control.

Rick curls his nails into the bandage on his palm, “Yeah.” He can feel the pressure on the scar and he can feel that presence in his mind, like a constant stinging behind his eyes and an intrusive whisper in his ears. “I'll wait until nightfall, don't need all of Alexandria seein’ me.”

Michonne nods while Daryl's eyes slide away, Rick can tell the hunter has more to say on the subject, his jaw set and the corner of his mouth tugging down.

Rosita clears her throat, holding up the bundle of medical supplies and giving it a little shake as if to say ‘anytime now?’

“Right.” Rick gives her an apologetic smile, running his hands on his jeans, as if to wipe away sweat that isn't even there, before giving a final pat to his thighs and walking to sit on the edge of the bed.

He perches there, socked feet braced on the floor as if he's ready to bolt at any second. He feels like a kid, head bowed and hands in his lap waiting for his parents to dish out a punishment for whatever mischief he caused. His angry parents whispering amongst themselves across the room, shooting glances in his direction every so often. He suppresses a snort at the thought of Daryl and Michonne playing the role of his disappointed mom and dad. Although, they were doing a pretty good job of if from where they huddled close to each other just out of his sight.

He couldn't quite make out their words this time, but when he cocked his head to the left he could see them there. It causes a lick of indignation to slide across his mind, so he turns to look over his shoulder at the them, “You two plan on gettin’ a room?”

Daryl waves a dismissive hand at him, “Shut up.” It's light and airy with no real impact behind it and Rick can't help the little smile that crosses his face. “Gonna grab ya’ some food, gotta be starving, man.”

Rick frowns at that, Daryl already turning to leave so thankfully he doesn't see the sudden downturn in his mood. He doesn't feel hungry and he doesn't think he wants to eat anything because the last meal he had might wind up finding its way outside. Nausea stirs like a sleeping beast in his stomach but, it doesn't last more than a fleeting second. He really tries not to think about the deer.

Instead of dwelling on that, Rick turns his attention to Michonne as she walks to lean against the wall in front of him, “Why're the Saviors here?”

“It's our deal.” He'd figured half as much, Negan obviously had a reason for strong arming them in such a blatant show of power, “We get to live, and every week they get to take half of everything.” A dark look takes over Michonne's face and he can see her fingers press into her skin where she crosses her arms.

“Negan decided to pay an early visit-” Rosita adds, shaking her head as she a needle into a porcelain bowl, “ _Mierda_ , what I wouldn't give to kill that asshole.”  

“They took all our weapons,” Rosita pours some isopropyl alcohol into the bowl, closing the lid and slamming it down rather aggressively, “… Well, most of them.” Rosita corrects herself, eyeing Michonne's katana with a pointed look.

Michonne huffs, eyes narrowing, “I’d like to see them try.”

Rosita gives a small, wicked smile then eyes glinting with amusement, “I thought Daryl was gonna lay someone out when they grabbed his crossbow.”

“Figures,” Michonne shakes her head minutely, mirth lighting up her face despite the grim circumstances, “That man is married to it.”

“We can't afford that.” Rick regrets cutting into the light moment the second the words leave his mouth but, like a train wreck he can't stop himself from stating the obvious, “We need those weapons.”

“We don't have a choice, _Rick_.” Rosita says his name with the cold gravity that someone announces a positive diagnosis for cancer. He's cowed into silence for a moment. He knows she blames him for Abraham and he doesn't feel that it's entirely unjustified.

“Is Maggie okay? Everyone else?” It's much quieter than he'd wished for it come out.

“She's fine, she's at Hilltop with Glenn and Sasha.” Michonne placates, giving Rosita a quick reprimanding stare. The woman only replies with a cold shoulder and an icy silence, focusing intently on a spot on the carpet.

Michonne continues, “Aaron's out making sure all the resident’s stay calm and Eugene's off fixing up a radio for the Saviors.”

Rick nods, licking his lips, “Good… That's good.”

He tries to stop his eyes from wandering to that accursed tan bandage just sitting there oh so innocently, hiding his palm. He tries to focus as Rosita shuffles around, grabbing objects from the little bedside table and snapping on a pair of gloves. He catches the silver glint of a pair of forceps sitting on the table by the shallow dish of alcohol, the curved needle resting at the bottom.

He stares, watching the overhead lights dance in the water, gently swaying and rippling with the tremors of the surface beneath it.

Rick pulls out of his daze with the slow, laziness of one's eyes focusing after staring for too long. Rosita hovers, hands reaching for his collar but, pulling back with a hesitation he's never seen her exhibit.

She seems uncomfortable, it's an expression that really doesn't suit her normally determined features, “Can I look at your shoulder?”

A spike of realization hits his middle, making him blink as his mind catches up to the flurry of his thoughts. He'd forgotten about that. He nods his head, perhaps a little too vigorously, trying not to let the white hot awkwardness consume him as he quickly pulls his shirt down off his shoulder exposing the wound.

He doesn't say anything. He doesn't really know how to address that particular issue without a whole mess of misunderstandings.

“You said you shot him how long ago?” Rosita's voice breaks the momentary quiet, the rubber snap of gloves being taken off echoes in his ears. He knows that the wound looked more healed than it should have in the mirror but, he was hoping naïvely that they would just brush over that detail.

This gets Michonne's attention, her head shooting up as she kicks off the wall to come closer and see for herself, “A few hours.”

Rosita purses her lips, and he can feel her pull his shirt back over his shoulder, “It's healed.”

What luck, Rick thinks bitterly staring at his hand like he could burn a hole in it with sheer willpower alone. He just sits there, not acknowledging what they're saying, as if he could ignore everything through sheer dismissal.  

“What?” He doesn't see Michonne level Rosita with an incredulous look, like the other woman was just playing an elaborate prank.

“Doesn't even need a bandage, it's just scar tissue now.” Rosita shrugs, playing the whole thing off but, there's a tense energy behind the action.

“That's-” Michonne starts to say, her voice low.

“Impossible.” Rosita finishes, her and Michonne sharing a look, while Rick tries not to feel like the biggest elephant in the room. He stays resolute, practically holding his breath, bracing for whatever may come.

“Got some grub.” Daryl knocks on the door frame other hand holding a generous plate of food, as he unknowingly breaks the tension in the room.

Rick shoots up, using it as the perfect opportunity to get away. He takes the offered plate, only for Daryl to hone in on the fact that the hand gripping the edge of the dishware sports a bandage, “Yer hand okay?”

Rick flinches, switching hands so fast that he's surprised the plate didn't go toppling to the floor in his haste “Yeah s'fine.”

He starts to eat if only to occupy his mouth with something other than words. It also gives him a chance to think his way out of the fact he's up shit creek without a paddle in sight.

Daryl nods, “Right, well hope ya don't mind leftover casserole.” He leans against the wall in nearly the same spot that Michonne had occupied, “didn' think you'd care too much since ya’ hadn't eaten jackshit the past four days.”

Rick tries not to show his surprise, nearly sputtering around the forkful of food in his mouth. He doesn't feel hungry at all, at least not in the traditional, stomach growling, hunger pangs sense. It's more of a frantic, buzzing thing that keeps trying to make itself known. He swallows against the taste, it's too everything and not enough of something, and they both come together to leave ash and disappointment on his tongue. He nearly cringes when it slides down his throat causing flashes of red tinged memories to cross his mind.

He can't stop himself from dropping the plate and the fork, both clattering to the carpet with muffled thuds. The pain seizes his whole body, like angry claws on his stomach lining, his limbs lock up and his muscles seize as if he's being electrocuted. He stumbles to the bed, shaking and heaving as he collapses onto the mattress curling in on himself, legs and arms hanging off the edge as he drives his elbows and his knees into his midsection.

He gags, gasping like a fish out of water as voices shout above his head and three figures swim in his vision obscured by involuntary tears.

“Shit, grab a bucket or somethin” Daryl yells, somewhere near his ear and he scoots away, pressing himself into the mattress his words ringing painfully in his ears. It hurts and it burns and he wants to lash out until it stops.

“Hey, hey you're okay just breathe.” Michonne rubs circles on his back, the touch sparks on his sensitive skin and he feels like he's being branded over and over.

Rosita rushes over a moment too late, Rick already leaning over the bed side just enough to vomit on the carpet and not the sheets. He heaves, that sickening involuntary spasm and hiccup that always came with throwing up racking his frame.

He gags, spitting up one last string of red bile before he collapses on his side. He stares, the world violently spinning and darkening at the edges. He might as well be floating, his entire body so numb with static that he can't even tell he's lying down.

“Is that blood?” Michonne asks, voice wavering a bit.

He feels like a captive in his own body. A cruel flesh prison and he's trapped in it with something that's angry, snarling and consuming him with it's raw viciousness. It drags him down until he's just barely floating above the bleakness of unconscious. He can feel it try and claw its way out but, something stops it, the very same thing that holds him down.

He just stares and stares, not even able to blink.

“He’s catatonic.” Rosita states, jumping into action as he feels finger press into his neck, pushing at his carotid artery, “I can’t feel his pulse but, he's breathing.” He's lifted further up onto the bed and laid out with his back propped against the headboard. His head rolls limply to rest on his chest and he tries to fight, to hold it up, to blink hell he tries to just move a finger.

“Check his hand.” Daryl suggests, leaning down into his line of sight as if to get a good look at his eyes, “Might jus' be a concussion but, could be sepsis.”

That finally gets him moving, some invisible lock on his body coming undone and he starts thrashing and fighting without forethought.

Daryl and Michonne hold him down, the hunter nearly straddling him to pin down his legs when he aims a kick at Rosita as she grabs for his flailing fist. He growls, angry unbidden sounds that accompany the snap of his teeth on thin air. That thing in him is right there, trying to fight off his captors and everything is a cloudy crimson.

“He's gonna hurt himself at this rate.”

He can feel fingers on the bandage, unwinding it frantically as he starts yelling, screaming and snarling. He's not thinking straight, really he's not thinking at all. His thoughts are less human and more animal, only perceiving threat and food, with no real distinction between the two.

He tries in a last ditch effort to yank his hand away, tugging and turning and clawing but, he knows the moment it's exposed to the open air. It's like a breath exhaled.

“It's a bite.” Rosita voices it like a question, voice rising at the end as if she doesn't understand what she's looking at.

Rick goes limp, fight fleeing his body at a dizzying speed and he's trapped, watching from some far away place in his mind once more. The snarling in his mind is quiet now.

Trepidation is the only thing that can describe the frantic way Michonne and Daryl scramble to see for themselves. A single word punches out of them both, “Fuck.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Boy howdy do I have no idea what I'm doing.


	3. The Big Bad Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Death was never the option, death was the consequence."  
> -Ariadne

He falls in and out of consciousness, turning his head side to side each time he's aware enough to do so.

He tries to lift his arms and catch the shadows that flit by him, hovering just out of reach. Strong grips press his hands back to his sides and warm fingers touch his neck while the back of a palm brushes his forehead. They poke and they prod until he's sick of the sensation. He tosses his head side to side, feverently trying to ward them off.

Gentle shushing answers his efforts. He murmurs a desperate plea in response and they continue to hush him, soft lips pressed to his temple as if it will calm him down.

He stares up at the ceiling, blinking lazily as it sways and rocks above him. He closes his eyes as strong arms jostle him, lifting him up by the backs of his knees and his shoulders, cradling him close to a chest that burns like a furnace on his skin. He struggles pitifully, shifting and pushing away from the oppressive heat and the embarrassment that wriggles like an ugly snake in his stomach. His squirming only rewards him a tighter hold and he's crushed closer to his carrier, cheek and nose pressed into a shoulder.

He watches the ceiling turn from stark white to murky black, the last traces of dawn casting a weak light across the horizon like an afterthought. Its light reflects on Daryl's face, hovering above him with all the concern of a mother hen. He smiles drunkenly up at him, squinting his eyes to try and stop the double vision.

He feels sick, just like he did back in the RV. A crippling weakness and warmth sweeping over him in constant waves with no real rhythm. There's a booming in his ears as well, unlike the ringing he's become so familiar with. It pounds a slow thunderclap in time with his heart. He hates it. It's too loud.

Daryl gives him a smile in return, a tense little thing that doesn't show any teeth, “Hang on man, gonna getcha to the doc.”

Confusion makes him try and shove his way out of Daryl's arms as he tries to protest that he's fine, he doesn't need a doctor. He's just a little sick.

It all comes out a mess. The hunter only grips him tighter, muttering words of reassurance and casting fearful glances towards Michonne's back, his pace quickening and only serving to make the world shake and rattle as his head thumps limply against Daryl's shoulder with each step.

The walls of Alexandria rise like pillars, cutting black shadows against the night sky. Rick stares at them, eyelids fluttering and head lolling with a sudden bout of dizziness. He coughs, a weak thing that's more of a gag and he closes his eyes, gulping loudly against the fluttering sensation of nausea. All he sees behind his eyelids is the damn interior of that RV and the blurry face of Negan glaring at him, hatchet between them.

God he somehow feels worse than he did then. It's like the infection is catching up to him, late but, with no less vengeance. He groans, doing his best to not lose whatever is left in his stomach. He doesn't know how anything could be after losing his 'lunch' all over the carpet in a grand bloody mess.

His body is still reeling from something, like a bad case of food poisoning. Eating normal food; just one more item stripped from his humanity. Those raw deer organs had done just fine but, a little bit of canned chicken and pasta? A fucking death sentence.

“Set him down back here.” Michonne opens the back door of a dusty little car, engine already running and the little ding, ding, ding of the open door indicator screams in his ear.

He shakes his head side to side, trying to get rid of the sound like it's an annoying insect a steady growl building in his chest with his mounting frustration. His head bumps against the frame of the car, Daryl giving a quick apology as he tries to maneuver his dead weight into the back seat.

He slumps, falling sideways until gravity pulls him smacking cheek first onto a seat belt buckle. The metal is cold and he closes his eyes, a blissful hiss rushing out of him as the fire on his skin dulls. The door slams shut, hitting against his thigh but he can't be bothered to care. He stares forward, the tan fabric of the seat in front of him suddenly the most interesting thing in the world.

Doors open and close in a flurry, warm hands lift his upper body and set him gently on a soft lap. He whines at the loss of the cool metal but, his limbs still refuse to acknowledge his brain so all he can muster is a frown in disapproval.

He closes his eyes when fingers run through his hair, the gentle scrape of nails on his scalp chasing away the sickness. For a brief moment, he's lulled into a dreamless sleep despite the bumpy ride and the worried voices flying overhead.

“We kill walkers no exceptions-”

“He's not one of ‘em.”

The jolt of a braking car wakes Rick and he rolls forward, nearly falling between the floorboard and the seats. His stomach feels as if it's left his body and continued forward with the momentum.

“We're here, c'mon.” He doesn't see Daryl practically throw himself out of the car but the engine turns off and the door slams shut with an unnecessary amount of force just as he heaves.

He spits, red dripping from his lips as he sucks in a ragged breath. Thankfully, Michonne had already left the car and spared her khaki jeans an unfortunate fate. He shuts his eyes, letting his head hang down as his arm shakes violently with the effort to keep himself from falling off the back seats.

When he opens them, he's outside back in Daryl's arms. Once more, he's reduced to being carried like a kid and it sticks a white hot poker of shame through his gut.

“What happened?”

Rick angles his head to see Glenn and Maggie rushing towards them, two people he really didn't think he'd see looking so whole and healthy since that night. He tries to muster a semblance of composure, trying to sit himself up a bit straighter at the very least but all that he achieves is a weak kick of his leg and a piss poor attempt to say Maggie's name. He tries to muster up the words to ask about the baby but, his attempts are cut off.

“He got bit.” Daryl inclines his head, voice tight and quiet.

“'s nthin’.” Rick slurs trying to curl his hand where it lays limp across his stomach, thinking deliriously that he can cover up the scar. There's a quiet gasp and Maggie reaches for his hand only to pull it away when Rick flinches backwards, shoving the appendage between his side and Daryl's chest, keeping it safely out of sight.

Daryl tightens his grip at the movement, turning Rick away slightly out of ingrained instinct, “We don' got time for this. Where the hell's the infirmary?”

His head spins at the sudden movement and he blinks, letting his head fall to the side as he tries to focus on his surroundings without seeing three of everything. It doesn't help that Daryl's set a brisk pace, brushing past the couple and in the direction of the infirmary Maggie gestured to, as a few Hilltoppers track them with curious eyes. Michonne keeps pace with them, hovering beside Daryl step for step and giving Rick worried looks when she thinks he's too out of it to notice.

“Wait,” Glenn calls, footsteps crunching as he jogs up beside them, “Why didn't you...” Glenn trails off but, his unfinished question hangs heavy in the air, there is no need to elaborate they all understand the implications.

“‘Cause he didn't turn.” Daryl's answer cuts through the air, brusque and crisp in the relatively quiet night. It sounds so much more damning to Rick's ears than it should.

There's a stretch of silence, their little crowd sharing glances of disbelief while others look at him with open bewilderment and skepticism, all arched brows and wide eyes. He looks away from them, keeping his head tucked down and wishing for all the world this wasn't happening.

There's a commotion from the big house at the center of the community, a sudden raucous of shouting and the distinct sound of a gun's hammer being pulled back. Fear and anger shoot through him at the familiar sound but, even with adrenaline rocketing through his veins he can do little more than face the threat with bared teeth and a growl falling from curled lips.

“What the hell are you people doing here?” Gregory's voice cranks his anger up exponentially, that arrogant pompous, holier than thou tone it always carries ignites every fiber of his being and clouds his vision. He twists, tugging out of Daryl's grip, right hand reaching down for the Bowie knife he knows the hunter keeps strapped to his waist while he kicks his legs out and away.

It's clumsy and graceless but, he manages with a preternatural speed and determination taking Daryl by surprise, who's left standing with his arms out and dumbfounded that the catatonic man had suddenly leapt from them.

“Now I said Margaret and Sarah could stay-”

He adjusts his grip on the knife, switching it to a hold that's parallel with his wrist before lunging to meet Gregory, cutting him off mid sentence. His hand goes to the man's collar holding him in place and pushing him back as he brings the blade to his throat.

Gregory backpedals to avoid the blade, hands raised and pistol forgotten as he tries to stutter out some kind of appeasement. Rick answers him with a wordless snarl tugging him closer, hoisting him flush against his chest. A dark sense of satisfaction mingles with the screeching in his head as the man cowers, eyes wet with tears and rolling wildly like a frightened rabbit.

This is the coward who got his people killed, who sent them out on false information, made them do his dirty work. A pathetic, waste of a man unfit to be a leader. Gregory's face swims in a red tinged haze and it's so close, so close that his ears ring and he's on fire, every nerve screaming and he knows; he knows how to put it out, he knows how to make it quiet.

He rears his head back, mouth open in anticipation as he goes to bite, to tear, to taste it on his tongue and fill his stomach because that's what it is beneath his fingers; meat.

A sharp crack to the back of his skull makes the world go white and for a split second of weightlessness and static he knows nothing. It consumes him chasing away the animalistic rage replacing it with a hollow confusion when his senses return with the meandering crawl of a snail.

He furrows his brow and squints his eyes, trying to understand why the world is sideways, the ground on his left and the dark sky on his right. He paws and pats at the earth, trying to figure out it's sudden shift as his lips work to form a question.

“I thought you said he didn't turn!” Glenn's voice resounds like a distant buzz in his ears and Maggie's angry one rises up alongside it.

“Why the hell are you wavin’ that thing around?”

Rick flips onto his stomach, bracing his hands against the ground and watching the world right itself in a shaky vignette. He tries to pull his legs under himself but, they refuse to cooperate and he gives a small sound in frustration that cuts off into a pathetic whine when the back of his skull throbs sharply causing a vice-like sensation to squeeze his eyes and his stomach to make itself known.

“Just calm the hell down.” Michonne's level headed voice is crystal clear. “He needs medical attention and then we'll leave.” Her voice is edged with steel and though Rick can't figure out where the hell she is in the kaleidoscope of his vision he can imagine her facing Gregory down, giving the man a truly dirty look.

Rick curls his hands into the soft dirt, kneading the small stones and grass under his palm as he manages to claw his way to his knees. The world sways dangerously for a moment and he tilts his head in the opposite direction of the movement, clenching his jaw and trying his best to make out the scene in front of him.

“H-he tried to kill me!” The indignant, shrill cry of Gregory rises above all else and watches the pistol in his hand glint a steely silver in the moonlight. The moon itself is a wan, thin thing like a lopsided grin hung in the night sky.

“You”- Gregory cuts himself off with an angry scoff, “You all need to go. You've overstayed your welcome.” Rick watches him gesture to Maggie and Glenn, Sasha standing beside them now, with a ready grip on an iron pipe.

No one moves and that seems to piss off the Hilltop leader, his face folding like paper and looking about as if confused why no one is moving, “Now!”

Again, no one moves and even Rick pauses  
in his movements, fists braced against his thighs. Gregory looks desperately to his people, “Kal, Jesus- show them out please.”

“We're not going anywhere.” Rosita crosses her arms, moving into Rick's line of vision and placing herself in the potential line of fire. It really doesn't do wonders to quell his rage and uneasiness about the situation, if anything it urges him to get to his feet faster. He admires her gusto but, he really doesn't think he can handle anyone else getting killed on his watch.

He stumbles, a muffled shout pushing up out of his lungs as he catches himself and he can feel as all eyes snap to him like a thousand ants crawling on his skin.

“Fine.” Gregory relents in a pouty huff more reminiscent of a child than a grown man, “If no one will listen to reason, at least restrain him. We don't need Rich here running around, attacking anymore innocent people.”

The man's blatant refusal to learn any of the Alexandrians name's ticks him off but, not as much as his insinuation that he's somehow an innocent party in all of this. It makes Rick clench his teeth and scrunch his nose as he straightens up to his full height and he wishes he still had Daryl's knife because his fingers are left to curl around empty air.

Vices wrap around his wrists and wrench them behind his back, stopping him in his tracks so he's left to glare pathetically at Gregory's retreating figure.

“I'll take these off as soon as you're in the infirmary.” Jesus voice rings in his ear as a familiar plastic brushes his skin and little teeth dig in as a zip tie is tightened. It's a bit loose, he notes with a twist of his hands and a little tug.

“I’m sorry about Abraham, Rick.” Jesus tugs him to his feet, a grip on his arm and another on his shoulder, just how Rick remembers hoisting handcuffed perps to their feet. “I can't say your actions towards Gregory are unjustified.”

“But, he still runs this place.” Jesus huffs, a short puff of air through his nose, “I'm just as guilty and if I'd known…”

Jesus’ voice breaks as he guides him with a gentle hand on his shoulder towards one of the trailers. Rick lets the silence stretch on, he doesn't know what to say or how to say it, and the rest of his group remains resolutely quiet as they trail behind him.

Anger burns in his chest, low and simmering but, it keeps him coherent enough to hold his head up and his feet moving. He can see Michonne send a cautious glance in his direction, hand twitching at her side as if she isn't sure whether to reach for her weapon or him.

Jesus gives a small knock before opening the door, “Dr. Carson?”

The doctor stands from his desk, setting down a manila folder and hurrying towards them, “Is Maggie okay? Is someone hurt?”

He cranes his neck, looking past the little gathering in the infirmary before his gaze sweeps back to Jesus, confusion furrowing his brows.

“I’m fine.” Maggie steps forward, “We’re sorry to barge in like this, but we need your help.” She hesitates, looking towards Rick and he meets her eyes with a small inclination of his head.

“Our friend, he was bit.”

Dr. Carson seems taken aback by this, his eyes narrowing, “Did you cut off the limb? Is he here with you?” He looks over their heads once more, sweeping their little crowd for someone who's had a limb crudely amputated.

Rick shifts, trying to stem off the sudden numbness pooling in his legs. “It was me.” It comes out a little slurred and he clears his throat against the lurching sensation that speaking gives his stomach.

Jesus takes this as his cue to undo the restraints and Rick gives the man a thankful nod, rubbing at his wrists in a self conscious gesture that brings the double crescent scar on his hand into view.

Dr. Carson moves forward, grabbing up his wrist in a firm grip that has Rick trying to tug it back on instinct with an angry huff. The doctor doesn't relent, instead he turns the palm over, bringing it closer to his face as if he can't believe what he's seeing.

The skin contact, the proximity, the slight puff of warm breath on his skin, and the tense silence all make for a buffet of sensations that his mind laps up and a cacophony of snarls sounds off in response, growls and warnings of danger and the possibility of a warm meal. It makes his stomach curdle and his fingers curl, as that burning stake in his middle sets ablaze a new to match the pain behind his eyes.

He starts choking, raspy breaths that punch out of his throat like a walker's and he bends double, gritting his teeth and trying to swallow around the imaginary blockage in his trachea. He tries to form words of reassurance, that he's okay, that they don't need to be here, they don't need to help him up on the bed, but his protests fall like leaves in a pond, barely making a ripple.

“Set him down here.” Dr. Carson's voice orders from somewhere above him as his head is lowered onto a pillow. He sinks back into it, that weightless cloud of down cradling his head but, it still hurts and he shuts his eyes against the pain and the sound and the red, tossing his head from side to side and raising his hands to claw it out if he needs to.

“Grab his arms.” Two sets of hands pin his body back to the bed and he strains against them kicking and pushing against the sheets, arching his back and flailing. It fucking hurts. It hurts. It hurts.

He doesn't realize he's saying it out loud, yelling it actually until something pricks the inside of his elbow and the world quiets in a sweeping hush that leaves him panting and staring up at the ceiling. It hurts but, its less, duller and softer like cicada song in the background.

“What'd you give him?” Daryl doesn't hide the wariness in his voice.

“It's a sedative,” Dr. Carson explains as he clips a heart monitor to Rick's finger, “It should keep him from convulsing and dull his pain.”

He blinks up at them, all their faces hovering over him, worry etched into their features and he tries his best to keep his eyes open, but they feel so heavy. They slip closed without him even realizing it until someone taps him lightly on the cheek.

“Stay with me Rick, I know you're feeling tired.” Fingers pry open his eyelids and a blinding light shines for a millisecond. “But, I need you to stay with us, just a bit longer.”

Rick tries his best to nod, feeling as if his brain rattles in his skull with the action and the ceiling tilts and turns in a dizzying kaleidoscope.

“Did he bite or scratch anyone?” Dr. Carson asks, and Michonne steps forward showing him the angry marks on her forearm.

“I don't think he broke skin.” Michonne glances down at him, “But, he hasn't turned. He can't infect anyone, right?” He can hear her uncertainty like the gentle quake of leaves in the breeze and it unsettles him.

“I don't know.” Dr. Carson frowns, the tiniest of downturns on his lips, “No one's ever lived long enough for the bite to heal.”

Dr. Carson turns his attention back to Rick, “How long has it been since you were bit?”

Rick furrows his brow, eyes rolling as if to look about for an answer that isn't there, he thinks it's been four days but, he can't be sure. He'd lost time, a lot of it, to a dark chasm in his memory.

He curls his thumb up under his palm, licking his lips as he tries to work his mouth around the number, “Four…”

Dr. Carson hums a nonverbal affirmative, “Days? You're sure?”

Daryl steps in with an angry sound, “He's fuckin’ sure, doc.”

Dr. Carson responds with something in a defensive manner, all set jaw and squared shoulders but, Rick doesn't hear it with the cotton in his ears and the mechanical scream of the heart monitor that starts up.

He feels like he's slipping backwards, sinking through the bed and into the ground, the dirt consuming him in a cold, dark and silent coffin.

The blissful quiet is broken seconds or hours later, he doesn't know but, when his eyes flutter open the interior is dark, only the yellow glow of a lamp and a trickle of silver light through the window slats illuminates the space.

There's no one hovering over him but, he can hear voices, talking in hushed tones somewhere nearby. He turns his head, just enough to see his family, some in chairs while others sit propped against the wall.

Maggie and Glenn slump against each other while Michonne and Daryl face Dr. Carson at his desk. Rosita and Sasha are nowhere to be seen and Jesus is gone as well, but he imagines they've gone to get some rest or keep watch for the night.

“His body appears to be reacting to the infection.” Dr. Carson flips through some papers, reading glasses propped on his nose. “He has the symptoms of cytokine release syndrome, which is typical with a bite but…”

The doctor sighs, pinching a hand to the bridge of his nose before he slips the glasses off his face and sets them down with a gentle clatter.

“But, what?” Daryl leans forward, bracing his elbows on his knees, thumb at his mouth as he chews on the nail.

“There's no sign of organ failure or any damage, no redness, no edema...” Dr. Carson lists off the symptoms with the familiarity of someone who's seen numerous people go through all of them, “He doesn't even have a fever- in fact it's the opposite, he's hypothermic.”

“Even with the nausea, the extreme fatigue and the pain- it still doesn't add up.” The doctor throws his hand in the air, a small gesture of defeat.

“It's..” Dr. Carson purses his lips, running his hands through his hair as he leans back in his chair, “It's like he's stuck in limbo.”

Michonne and Daryl share a glance but, the hunter is the one who speaks up. “Whaddya mean?”

“His BPM is barely holding at 30 and his blood pressure-” Dr. Carson gives a laugh, more nervous than amused, scrubbing the back of his hand over eyes ringed with dark bruises, “Well, it’s non-existent.”

“I don't know what that bite did.” Dr. Carson fiddles with his glasses on the desk, drumming his fingers on the surface, “but, he's not exactly alive.” He doesn't lift his head to meet their eyes.

“His heart's still beatin’ ain't it?” Daryl levels the doctor with a dark look.

Dr. Carson gives a sharp inhale through his nose before pushing himself up from his desk.  
“Well, in any case, I’ll keep him here overnight.”

As the doctor moves closer, Rick shuts his eyes, pretending to still be asleep. Cold metal snakes around his left wrist as it's lifted off the bed, and the click-click-click of a handcuff closing echoes in his ears before his hand is set gently back to its original resting place.

“Just in case he happens to turn.” Dr. Carson moves away with heavy footsteps. “I'd offer for you all to sleep somewhere comfy but, I don't think I can convince you."

The twist of a door knob fills the air with a gentle click. “I wouldn't get your hopes up… even if he does come out of this." Dr. Carson continues, pausing to let out a quiet sigh, "I don't think he's going to be the same.”

“Right… well, if you need me just give a holler." With those final words the door closes with a whoosh and with it the room falls quiet once more.

No one says anything for a long time and it's the silence that sets him on edge the most. He wishes they'd just talk, say anything, whisper or shout, he doesn't care as long as it's anything but the soft breathing and shuffles in the dark that lull him back into a state of brief calm.

It becomes too much when the oppressive blanket over his mind begins to lift, letting that presence creep in, all growling and frothing at the mouth, back with a vengeance. It makes him twist his wrist, metal cutting into the soft skin until it's so slick with blood he slips his hand out, ignoring the dull throb.

He sits up, a slow inching up off the surface of the bed, looking about himself with wide eyes flashing in the dark like an animal.

The chairs are empty now and Maggie is gone as well leaving an exhausted Glenn whose head slumps forward, wrists propped up on bent knees as his eyelids droop dangerously close to shutting.

Liquid drips to the ground with a rhythmic pitter patter, leaving warm trails down his fingers but he doesn't focus on that, he can't, not when all his blood and his nerves sing with fire. That screeching of his thoughts ratchets up into a frenzy, slovering and thrashing at the prospect of warm skin breaking under his fingernails.

His hand twitches at his side and he steps forward, closing in on an easy meal.

The floorboards creak underfoot and suddenly his prey is moving, startling into a state of panicked alertness.

"Rick? What are you-"

It's voice collides against his mind, offensive and intrusive, trying to worm it's way past animalistic instinct to remind him of something.

It doesn't stop him from pinning it against the wall, an arm across it's throat to silence it, to keep its tongue quiet lest it use it to try and impede him, and make him remember that- that something… someone?

"Hey, man-"

Its voice is plactating now, soothing and he knows it. He remembers it like how he remembers cold metal walls, unimaginable grief and wrought iron bars. He remembers it like how he remembers the abstract concepts of loyalty and trust, a friendly smile and a teasing voice.

He presses harder, a growl slipping out between clenched teeth that morphs into a pained whine as something sharp and vicious claws at the back of his eyes and rips at his tongue, forcing it to form sounds.

"Glenn?"

Rick narrows his eyes, watching as the face inches from his own slackens with visible relief.

"Thank God, I thought you'd lost it, man." Glenn breaths, a nervous smile gracing his lips as he swipes a shaking palm against his forehead.

Rick steps back, hands held in front of him as if he isn't quite sure who they belong to anymore. Blinking, he twists his palm examining the skin he'd shredded along his wrist and up the back of his thumb. It hurts with the intensity of a bruise that one forgets is even there unless reminded of or accidentally bumped into.

He continues to backpedal, slow cautious things that smear the blood along the ground as he shuffles backwards.

Glenn moves after him, gentle reassurances and concern dripping off every word only for them to fall on deaf ears.

He shakes his head, a silent refusal or perhaps a plea that is backed by open palms thrust in Glenn's direction like a physical barrier.

"Stay ba…" He doesn't quite get the whole sentence out before it's choked off involuntarily. "Not safe."

If Glenn hears his warnings, he makes no indication, instead reaching for his arm where it drips less and less blood onto the floor with each passing second.

"What'd you do to your arm, man?"

Rick gives him a warning hiss, like a cat backed into a corner, arching away and tucking his limbs closer to himself. He's backed himself against the wall, the cool glass of the window on his palm. He's trying to drown out that thing that beckons him to rush forward, that hungry, insatiable thing that sees everything in the simple binary of living or not, food or not.

It makes him grind his teeth and breathe heavy heaving pulls of air through his nose as he watches Glenn from the corners of his eyes.

His eyes flicker, never seeming to focus and each blink is like a never-ending tennis match between blurry and clear. Clarity dawns in the form of an orange glow in his peripherals and piano notes in his ears.

It draws his gaze away from Glenn and he shifts to look through the slats in the window, peering in disbelief at the towering pyres blazing at either side of the very open gate.

He stares unblinking as the light dances in the reflection of his eyes, and the world dulls around him until his world narrows to fire and the flame. He's drawn to it in such a fundamentally irresistible way that trumps any living thing.

"Is that .. Beethoven?" Glenn comes up beside him, his eyes widening at the sight.

Shouts from outside draw Glenn's attention away and the man moves to rush out the door only to find it barricaded.

"Shit!" Glenn curses as he tries the window next, Rick stepping out of the way but reluctant to move far.

The window doesn't give.

"Get that gate closed!"

Panic strikes Glenn like an electric shock, it makes him stop in his tracks and look towards the muffled voice, a proverbial deer in headlights. A heartbeat later he's grabbing Dr. Carson's desk and dragging it to the center of the trailer.

"Come on." Glenn mutters to himself as he scrambles to open the hatch in the ceiling. It swings open and Glenn hoists himself up, calling for Maggie before telling Rick to stay put as he manages to get up onto the roof.

At the sound of his name, Rick shakes himself out of his trance long enough to realize that Glenn's disappeared and the groans of the dead are getting louder.

Before he decides on a course of action, his body is moving, grabbing the nearest object and smashing it through the window. Wrong, something whispers as he watches walkers pour in across the yard, dark shambling silhouettes moving through the night.

Competition, something adds as he braces his hands against the window sill, pushing the broken screen and slats out of the way, shattered glass cutting through his palms like butter but, he carries on unheeded.

With the barrier to the outside broken, sound and light pour in, he can almost taste the heat of the fires on his tongue, feel the skull of a walker crunch under his fingers, and smell the sweet perfume of living flesh.

If he remembers, he'll look back on the fact he chose to crawl out of the window rather than exit out the more sensible, less destructive way through the roof.

It's faster, he'll tell himself, not quite sure why.

He falls, tumbling gracelessly into the grass on to his stomach where he claws at the ground, dragging himself a few miserable feet with a keening groan that mirrors the walkers he inches towards.

Back on his feet, he uses the side of the trailer to keep himself upright, unknowingly smearing a long line of red along its length.

He keeps his head down, eyes up, and feet moving, slowly gaining speed with each inch of ground.

With the presence of the undead, it's easier for him to focus on who's friend and who's foe, his mind is not clouded with doubts and desires from that scrabbling beast in his subconscious. It claws for the demise of the walking dead, ignoring the living and fueling that protective instinct for his family by tenfold until his need to protect them is a feral, frenzied chant in his mind.

It makes him want to destroy, to tear, and maim and defeat adversaries, real and imaginary. It makes him want to rip the very music from the air and snuff out the fires, to quiet it all because it screams and screams, danger.

The car, he needs to get to the car, that teal coated steel gleaming in the firelight, its sound drowning out the cries and shouts in the night.

Sasha beats him there, slamming the butt of her rifle into the metal grating welded over the windows, a frustrated shout escaping her.

She doesn't notice the walker.

Red coats his vision, drowning everything in a crimson white noise that rings in his ears. He doesn't notice her turn towards him, raising her gun, hand going to the knife in her holster.

Her eyes flash in the dark, frightened and alarmed but, he brushes past her, lunging full tilt at the beast behind her with its mouth open and mere inches from her back.

Tumbling to the ground, the walker groans and hisses beneath him. It doesn't try to bite him, instead it treats him more like an obstacle, clawing and pushing at his arms and his chest.

Its efforts are useless.

All snapping jaws and straining, rotted neck as it growls and snarls. He gives a wordless, feral shout in response, sticking his fingers in its mouth and pulling its jaw open. Yellow teeth dig into the soft flesh of his hands and it gurgles around the intrusion.

He pulls until its face splits and its lower mandible rips from its head with a sickening crunch of tendons and bone.

He caves its soft skull in with the jaw still clutched in his fist.

Satisfied with its demises he moves on to the next one. Ignoring the living, he focuses on slamming the walker's forehead into the car door, a stain of black blood and gore smearing the paint in the low light.

A strong grip pulls him away, stumbling in an awkward backpedal just in time as he watches a tractor roll over the car. Silencing the incessant music with an impossibly loud crunch of steel and glass, Rick's mind calms, like the brief settling in the eye of a storm.

He gives Daryl a shaky nod and the hunter returns it before moving away at a sprint to help those who are trying to stem the flow of walkers through the gate and shut the wooden doors.

He stares after him, flames framing his vision and silhouettes dancing some macabre dance in the dark. Maggie's face swims into view and he steps back, shaking his head, too close, he thinks, she's too close, and his fingers itch and his teeth crave that red just beneath the skin.

He faces away, concentrating on the ground, and the sounds, and the smells, and the groan of the undead that makes his skin prickle and his insides churn with unbidden fury and jealousy.

"Rick?"

A gentle hand on his cheek prompts him to face Maggie, her eyes framed by dark circles and a weariness in them that mingles with the worry that tugs her lips into a frown.

"We gotta get-"

She's interrupted by the roar of engines, rumbling like thunder, its baritone echoes in Rick's chest and draws him towards it, much like the remaining walkers.

A pickup truck and a flashy black sports car burst through the gate, the back of the former filled with Saviors armed to the teeth.

Hilltoppers and Alexandrians alike abandon their effort to shut the gate, retreating to form a small gathering in front of the museum house.

He watches with a sense of detachment as the Saviors pick off the rest of the walkers, everyone's attention now turned from one enemy to another. This one, far more deadly and unpredictable.

Relative silence falls after a few minutes, only the quiet crackling of the dying fires and the crunch of boots on gravel cut the tense air.

All of the Saviors face them, like some sort of living chess board, seemingly bored as if this is simply a chore and they'd rather be anywhere else.

Rick is keenly aware of the fact they hold all the power, the Hilltop Colony is the proverbial knife at a gunfight and he keeps flickering his gaze from one Savior to another, searching for a reason.

He steps forward, to ask them why they're here but Maggie cuts him off, side stepping in front of him, Michonne seamlessly sliding next to her, shoulder to shoulder and completely blocking off his path.

Indignantly, he tries to skirt around them but Michonne turns just enough to give him a look, shaking her head, her eyes glinting in the darkness and he hesitates.

"Why're you here?" Maggie demands, no weapon in her grasp but, her words cut the air like a threat.

"Well, I am _glad_ you asked."

Like some ghostly apparition, Negan steps out of the shadows, the Saviors parting like the Red Sea for their leader. Lucille rests on his shoulder, dark and wet with fresh blood, or as fresh as one could call a walker's blood.

"You know, I think a _thank you_ is in order?" He jabs a finger at Maggie, a thousand watt smile stretching his lips as he walks forward, stopping in the no man's land of their little standoff.

No one says anything and Negan frowns, rolling the baseball bat handle under his fingers and raising an eyebrow.

"Where the hell's Gregory?" His voice is less cheerful, edging into the gritty tones of annoyance.

Rick's breath quickens, a desperate draw of oxygen from somewhere between fear and rage. He watches the back of Maggie's head, consumed by panic and the sound of a pistol firing echoes in his ears, a mirage from another time.

"I wanna know if he liked our _little_ present." Negan gives a soft chuckle to himself, prowling down the line of people, surveying them like they're merchandise at a store.

"He's not here." Maggie treads carefully, a single step forward with her chin lifted, a confidence that besets the slight tremble of her frame.

"Well that's a damn shame." Negan runs a hand down his chin, a soft click of his tongue following as he leans back on his heels and nods to himself.

Negan waves Lucille in an arc, "We were here to save your asses- make you understand how _beneficial_ our arrangement can be."

He stops, kicking at a walker's corpse with all the dejected energy of a kid who wasn't picked for the dodgeball team. "I didn't think the Tractor Supply had it in 'em."

A sneer crosses his face and he tilts his head to pin Maggie with a nasty glare.

"But, looks like our _friends_ from Alexandria screwed the pooch." Negan says it with an  
artificial sweetness that has Rick scrunching his nose and his hand going to a pistol that isn't there.

"Ruined the whole goddamn thing, and now I can't be sure you hicks fuckin' _get it_. I don't think you _appreciate_ our help." Negan puts a hand to his chest, a dangerous, wild gleam taking residence in his dark eyes. "And _that_? Well that's fuckin' rude as hell."

The words aren't shouted, but they might as well be with how they slam into Rick's chest like a physical blow. And that red seeps into his vision and he scrunches his eyes against it, digging his nails into his palms and feeling the raised edges of the scar there. It only makes his mind spiral out of control faster, dangling on a tightrope between humanity and what monster lies in the chasm beneath.

Negan pinches the bridge of his nose, "I _really_ don't wanna have to kill someone."

Negan raises a hand, waving a few fingers in a summoning gesture. A blonde woman steps forward, rifle clutched in experienced hands as she gives a sidelong glance to the Savior leader, like a loyal hunting dog awaiting the command.

"People are resources, a valuable as shit one too, but-" Negan interrupts himself with a sigh, as if he truly feels any sense of remorse for what he's about to do, "-it seems to me we need another reminder."

Nervous shuffling and muffled cries start up when the woman trains her rifle on the crowd.

"We get it." Michonne placates, hands out and weaponless, "We didn't know, we were just here for some medicine. They had nothing to do with this-"

"No!" Negan yells, brandishing Lucille in her direction, "I don't think you understand how this shit looks."

"To them-" Negan gestures to the Hilltoppers, "You're the little piggy, standing up to the big bad wolf and that? Well, that shit gives people the _wrong_ idea."

Negan lets Lucille fall to his side, "And hell, we just can't afford that."

His eyes seem to rove over the people once more, settling with a satisfied smile on someone off in the crowd to Rick's left.

"Kill the Asian kid."

Maggie chokes on a cry, it's an angry ugly thing that has her desperately trying to make her way to Glenn's side.

The blonde woman raises her rifle and the other Saviors do the same, moving forward to encircle the group, like a pack of hyenas all nasty grins and excited yips.

The tightrope snaps, an abrupt weightlessness that leaves him with a moment of clarity before he falls down into the confines of his mind, something clawing past him to take his place. A burning in his veins and a ringing in his ears as the world turns to a cloudy red against his retinas.

"Don't move!"

A shot rings out and it slices through the red, a fraction of black, a mere blip that's followed by another. His chest burns, ragged breaths sounding more like gurgles as something punches through his bones and flesh but, it doesn't stop him.

"He's not a dead one!"

"You fuckin' sure?!"

One slams into his neck, ripping the artery away with it, spraying his own blood across his ear and his shoulder. Still he doesn't slow.

He's too close now, the threat of friendly fire too great.

"Shit! Ceasefire!"

"Get him off her!"

A knife finds its way dangerously close to his face, slicing a line from his cheek to his brow and trying to find its way into his temple. He twists it away from him, feeling bones crunch under his grip as he digs his nails into the soft stomach of the living beneath him.

Screaming doesn't register as a signal to stop in his ears, the ringing is too loud, only quieted by the sight of red as he tears with more vigor, through cloth and skin, it can only be silenced by the texture of its viscera on his tongue.

It's the span of only a few frenzied seconds but, for him it's an eternity. Before a bullet can find his brain or a knife the base of his skull, he goes for the throat, biting down without hesitation until his teeth meet each other as they tear through muscle and tendon.

It quenches something inside of him, like the first rain drop after a long drought, the first drink from an oasis along an endless trek through the desert, the first taste of food after starvation.

He's ripped away too soon, forced to relinquish his meal when the butt of a rifle slams into his jaw, forcing it open.

Strong arms yank him into a kneel, and he breaths those gasping, dying sounds bringing him out of the red and into reality until he's fully aware of the dying woman in front of him. A man, with equally blond hair frantically pressing at the gaping wound on her throat.

"Trish! Fuck, please- just hold on-" The man's hands slip in the blood and he falls forward, pressing his forehead against the woman's, as she gurgles, wordless and desperate, each inhale inching towards her last.

Rick gapes, a disbelief so great he's nearly convinced he has nothing to do with what he's seeing. Except the taste on his tongue and the blood dribbling from his lips and down his chin won't let him.

The blond man turns on him, eyes wet and red, an impossible sadness crumpling his features that fractures into a boundless anger when Rick meets his gaze.

"You killed her! You fucking monster-"

Rick recoils, craning his neck back as the man looms over him, a hand grabs the back of his hair and forces him to look up. A sharp blade dances in front of his eyes, moving to his temple with a sharp pricking sensation as it digs in, twisting and slow he can feel it slice through skin and muscle to dig into his skull.

Like a television filling with static, the further the knife goes, the more the fuzziness consumes him. It's so absent of pain he's not even sure it's real.

He closes his eyes, letting the world drop away but, suddenly the static is gone.

He watches in a drunken state of awareness as the crowd is forced apart, once more parting in the wake of their leader.

"Patrick, what the fuck is going on here?" Negan addresses the blond man a truly murderous tone to his voice.

When he doesn't get an answer immediately he looks from the dead woman on the ground to where Rick is restrained, blood oozing out of the bullet wounds in a slow trickle on to the ground.

It doesn't seem to register in Negan's head because he turns away, opening his mouth to address everyone present before shutting it with an audible click.

His head snaps around so fast he surely gets whiplash. His face is carefully neutral until it falls into something truly angry, unlike anything Rick's seen on Negan's face and that stirs up a primal fear deep in his stomach.

“ _No._ No fucking way.” Negan smiles, a vicious frustrated thing that's too tight and too thin. “I put your ass down Old Yeller style." He points Lucille at him, practically shaking the bat in his face, “you do _not_ get to come back from that.”

Rick can't answer, he's caught in a dumbfounded stare, bright blue eyes trained on the familiar image of a corpse with its throat ripped out.

Negan levels him with a seething look, tongue caught between his teeth and eyes narrowing before all of that snaps away into something much more composed.

He turns away, fingers drumming on the handle of Lucille as he looks down at the woman's body, "A damn shame." It's just barely above a whisper but it sounds truly remorseful hanging in the air.

Rick blinks up at Negan, bleary-eyed understanding dawning on him when the man crouches in front of him. Fingers grip his chin, smearing the blood there and pushing at his lips to reveal a hint of red stained teeth.

"It's a damn shame you can't die." Negan whispers, the barest hint of a smile filling Rick's vision. "Cause you're _not_ gonna like what comes next."

Negan lets him go none too gently, making his teeth click and his head spin. Rick is left with the chill of a slow simmering fear, creeping like ice down his spine as he watches Negan walk away.

He realizes in that moment there's still so many things to be afraid of, even when dying isn't one of them.

"Forget the kid." Negan grins, looking back at Rick with a calculating gaze, "Kill one of the farmers."

A shot rings out, followed by cries and shouts that dance in his ears like that very night not so long ago. He kneels just the same, as unable to stop anything as he was before. A useless pawn in a large game that's under the delusion he's somehow able to sway any of it because the circumstances have changed.

"Alright, load him up." Negan sweeps a hand through the air and he's pulled to his feet and dragged bodily to the back of the pick up truck.

He strains to crane his neck and look for his family but, all he sees are Saviors pressed in on every side of him, black leather and anger rolling off of them, leaving no room for escape.

Looking down he catches a hint of the blonde woman's corpse through the spaces of the Saviors legs, her body set near the back of the truck bed, reverently tucked beneath a dark blanket as if to keep her warm.

She'd look asleep if it wasn't for her missing throat and the thin wound of a knife stabbed through her temple.

He looks up and away, watching with glazed eyes as the gates of the Hilltop Colony close behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just ignore any obvious plotholes or impossibilities, this shit is technically a crack fic after all.  
> Also if I happened to not make it obvious-- Rick can't really feel pain anymore and that's gonna be important later on. 
> 
> And I still have no idea what I'm doing.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Stop, drop  
> And drag me into place  
> And lock the fire escapes  
> I'll break your pretty face." Choke, IDKHOW

The ride had been relatively silent but, about a half hour down the road Patrick speaks up, glaring at Rick who's forced to kneel across from him. 

"Why don't we just kill him?"

"Negan wants him alive." A woman with dark skin and a could care less demeanor shrugs, leveling the blond man with an exasperated look. 

"So he just gets to live, then?" Patrick sneers, looking down his nose.

The woman heaves a sigh, exasperation for the other Savior's behavior written in every line of her body. "You want him dead so bad? Put a knife through his skull and let me know how that plays out for you." 

She holds a blade out to him, handle first and when the blond man doesn't take it she shakes it, raising an eyebrow and letting it dangle there between them. "That's what I thought."

She sheathes the knife, returning her grip to her rifle and training her gaze over the cab of the truck. 

Patrick huffs, muttering darkly under his breath and if glares could kill, Rick would be set aflame instantaneously. 

He tries to ignore the feeling of the murderous gaze, falling into the reprieve of his own thoughts and the bump of the tires on the cracked asphalt. 

They didn't put a bag over his head, they only tied his wrists in front of him and stationed Saviors on either side of him, twin grasps on his shoulders that keep him kneeling and the barrel of a gun pressed to the back of his skull like a cold threat. 

He supposes they don't know that a bullet through his brain won't kill him but, even so it'd send him straight into an oblivion, losing time and humanity to the thing in his head, and the looming uncertainty of not coming back keeps him compliant.

They don't expect him to escape. 

He knows the way to the Sanctuary now but, if they're so confident he'll never use it against them than they must have one hell of a time in store for him. 

They roll past the gates when the sun is still climbing into the sky, unforgiving rays making the cramped truck bed feel even more suffocating. 

The walkers chained to the fences draw his attention as well as several people in tan sweat suits with orange letters spray painted crudely on their fronts. They seem to be working to put the walkers there, using snare poles and lengths of chain. 

He can't imagine they're out there by choice, judging by their dirty, ragged appearances, lack of footwear, and hollow cheeks accompanied by blank eyes. 

Before the vehicle comes to a stop in front of a rundown factory building, he's being yanked to his feet, socks slipping on the truck bed as he's dragged onto the gravel ground. 

"Get up." A kick to his side prompts him to stand up, awkwardly bracing his bound hands against the ground for leverage. 

That same woman from earlier shoves him forward, forcing him to step hurriedly through a series of double doors. 

He stumbles and staggers as more hands push him towards the center of the factory floor, until he's standing alone in a throng of people. He shuffles, testing the ropes around his wrists as eyes scrutinize him from every direction. 

Workers on the factory floor all pause in their tasks, gathering to watch the scene unfold like it's the latest pay per view television show. 

He recognizes some of them as the foot soldiers Negan is usually accompanied with but others look as if they work in the factory exclusively, opting for less leather and more practical wear for carrying out various duties. There's even a few children, all peeking around taller bodies to catch a glimpse of him. 

And what a sight he must make, covered in blood, rapidly healing bullet wounds in his chest and neck, and looking the part of a walker with red stains on his face and teeth. 

A whistle fills the air and all attention turns to the catwalk above as a clang of metal forces the whispers into a hush. 

"This-" Negan pauses, thrusting an open palm down towards Rick with an entertainer's smile. "-is Rick the Prick, the very same one who killed a whole helluva lot of people." 

Murmurs start up and Negan continues on, his words darkening. "Your brothers and sisters in arms." 

He lets the sentence hang in the air, draping his forearm across the yellow railing as he leers down at Rick, looking like the cat who's got the cream. "He is our prisoner and I'd like you to treat him as such, really give him the old Savior welcome." 

"And for anyone wondering what that means?" Negan moves, tapping Lucille on the metal as he walks down the length of the catwalk. "I mean you treat him like the fuckin' shit stain he is." 

Negan growls out the words, watching Rick with a sick smirk of satisfaction as the ranks close in around him. 

Helpless, he raises his bound fists in preparation, moving into a lower stance as he spins in place, backing away from the few eager souls who step too close. A rumble grows in his chest and his lip curls with the beginnings of a snarl that tears out of his throat with a snap of his teeth when fingers hook into his collarbone. 

He yanks himself away from the grip, vision flickering to a monotone wash of red as his proverbial hackles raise. Twisting his hands with a fervent, frantic energy he can feel the rope dig in, rubbing away his skin to stain the tan rope a dark brown with blood. 

He thinks he's almost got them slick enough to slip free when that metal clang sounds again, freezing everyone where they stand, not moving away but no longer actively reaching for him. 

"I know you're all eager fuckin' beavers to beat the holy hell outta Rick here but, we're on a tight schedule." 

Negan leans against the railing of the last stair step, gloved hand gripping the metal as he longues against it, like he's watching a particularly fascinating scene in a play. An expectant look has the Savior arching an eyebrow and casting his gaze out at the crowd, Lucille swinging low at his side. 

Simon seems to catch on to the silent exchange, breaking rank to wave his hands in the air in a move along gesture. "Alright, you heard the boss, get back to work!"

People start to file out into different parts of the factory, a fair share of whispers and murmurs as well as disgruntled grumbles being exchanged. When the doors swing shut for the final time, only a handful of Saviors remain. 

"Thought you killed him?" Simon looks to Negan, talking over Rick's head as if he isn't there. 

"I fuckin' did." Negan pushes himself off the railing, finally stepping down to the ground floor. "Dumbass doesn't know how to stay dead." 

Simon gives a sound of affirmation, nodding and rubbing a hand over his beard as if deep in thought, his eyes roaming over Rick in a way that makes him feel like a rather bothersome fly. "What're we doing with him? You puttin' him to work in the yard?" 

"Not yet." Negan calls over his shoulder, propping his baseball bat against the row of lockers he's rummaging through. "Shit." 

Rick angles his head, it's odd seeing the Savior do anything but be intimidating and struggling to open a locker was a touch too domestic for his whole big, badass visage. 

He looks to Simon, the man keeps a carefully neutral expression, leveling him with a raised eyebrow as if daring him to say anything so he'd have an excuse to hurt him. 

"Fuckin' finally." The locker slams close with an echoing bang as Negan picks Lucille back up, this time a bundle of tan cloth in his other hand. 

He tosses it at Rick's feet, letting it fall on the damp and dirty ground in a crumpled heap. 

Not sure what he's supposed to do, Rick kicks at the clothing, giving a quizzical head tilt at the notion they expect him to change with his hands bound. 

Negan's booming command comes a moment later, the man falling back onto a couch across the way with a sigh. "Strip him." 

Rick steps back, shaking his head and opening his palms as best he can to try and reason with his captors.

Looking to Negan, he waits for the man to say its a joke and laugh his smug ass off, all he sees is Negan cleaning his beloved baseball bat with a rag and alcohol, a careful reverence in his motions even with his feet kicked out as he sags into the sofa. 

The Savior doesn't afford Rick even a fraction of his attention. 

Desperately, he backs himself against the wall, uncaring concrete pressing into his lower back as he curses his mind for being uncharacteristically quiet. 

That feral presence is seemingly idle, taking a back seat for the moment as adrenaline sweeps through his frame.

He nearly slips his wrists from the ropes, small splatters of blood littering the ground and his clothes. Panicked huffs leave him with a slight rattle and wheeze, and they only get quicker as Simon looms over him. 

Baring his teeth in some animalistic response he lets out a feral sound, faking a lunge at the bigger man. It makes Simon startle, taking a step back with an expression that suggest he's genuinely taken aback. 

"Careful, he bites." 

Negan's comment makes Rick focus his attention on the man across the room and lose sight of the more immediate threat. 

Of course, this serves as the perfect opportunity for Simon.

The world spins as Rick's turned violently and shoved into the wall, a hand on the back of his head smashing his cheek into the concrete and his hands now trapped uselessly against his front. 

He tries to buck him off, wriggling and twisting as far as he can but the bigger man only pushes harder, grinding his face into the rough stone, his teeth catching on the wall with a jarring clack. 

Gritting his teeth against the sensation of a knife gliding across his skin he tries to kick at Simon's shins, stomp on his toes, really anything that'll make him stop. His efforts are futile and his shirt is cut off with a mechanical efficiency that begets the involuntary curdle of his insides as discomfort roils low in his abdomen like hot coals. 

His clothes peel off, tearing from dried blood stuck to his skin and bullet wounds nearly healed with a noise that echoes in his ears. 

While the whole process isn't overtly sexual in nature it's a cruel facsimile and it leaves him staring off to the side, fight having switched to fawn as each layer of clothing is stripped from his body like physical layers of his soul. 

It hurts with the disturbing intensity of something being pried from beneath his sternum, an intense humiliation that burns at his ears and his eyes. 

Of the Saviors he can see, guns in hand and waiting to use them if need be, one is the woman from the truck. 

Where the others seem to watch the scene in front of them with rapt attention and varying degrees of interest she looks past Rick, her gaze trained somewhere too high above them to really be looking at where he struggles as if refusing to look means she doesn't have to acknowledge it. 

He doesn't even realize that Simon has long since let go of him, leaving him to sag against the wall, phantom hands still holding him in place, digging into his skin with a cruel bruising force intent on harm. 

Slowly he pushes away from the surface, still not blinking and thus his eyes retain their glazed over appearance when he turns around. 

He keeps his head down, cowed by a prickling sensation that races up and down his neck and forces him to hunch in on himself, trying to hide from the scrutiny, feeling like a raw nerve exposed to the air. 

His hands are cut free and he doesn't realize he's wrapped them around his middle, angling himself away from the eyes that scour his skin. 

"Shit, Simon you already take all the fight outta him?" 

Rick glares at Negan from the corner of his eyes but he's forced to look away, blinking back the blurriness of unbidden tears.

Gritting his teeth he curses himself for being so distraught. Despite his best mental efforts, he can't deny the deep seated sense of violation, like somehow his soul is tainted to match the blood and bruises on his skin. 

Negan chuckles, setting Lucille down on the couch cushions and giving her handle a little pat before standing up. "Ah, there's that baby blue stink eye I love to see." 

Rick hears the loud boot steps come closer to him, all wide stride and confident as they smack the ground in an ominous circle around him, like a shark closing in on its prey. 

"Jesus." Negan draws the word out his steps stopping somewhere in front of him, close enough that Rick can see the toes of the man's boots. "You look like shit- when was the last time you had a fuckin' meal?" 

Rick raises his chin, doing his best to square his jaw and level the smug Savior with a look that actually meets Negan's eyes. 

The Savior just cracks a smile, his eyes sparkling in a way that is less mirthful and more sadistic. "Fuck, I feel like a stiff breeze would knock your scrawny ass over." 

He never really thought about how thin he'd gotten. He was already stretching meals thin before that unfortunate night at the Savior's mercy but with everything that came after, he didn't- no, he doesn't feel hungry- not for a home cooked meal or a granola bar at least. 

Nonetheless, a hunger still rumbles in his mind like the brewing of a storm its slow crescendos ebbing and flowing with the snarling beast there. 

Glancing down he sees his ribs and his hips beneath his skin, wrapped like a shrub in plastic all pointy edges and hard angles.

It belies the strength of his limbs, he's still very capable of ripping into someone bare tooth and claw and he knows it. Knows it like the whispers of crimson in his ears and the scratch of nails in the folds of his brain. 

He knows it like how his teeth ache with the desire to feel the pressure of a bite beneath them as he tears Negan limb from limb. 

Negan gives a sweeping up and down gesture in Rick's direction. "Well let's not just stand here dicks swinging in the breeze." 

Pointing to the pile of clothes with a thumb over his shoulder the smile falls from Negan's face. "Get dressed, prick." 

Rick walks past the Savior, being sure to keep his eyes on the man, effectively pinning Negan with his gaze like a deer watching the approach of a threat. 

Negan doesn't seem to care, nonplussed he crosses his arms and drums his fingers on his forearms. 

Bending down, Rick grabs up the tan garments, slipping into them with relative ease, his heart pounding for a moment when he loses sight of the world as he's pulling the sweat shirt over his head. 

Small red stains spread across the fabric as the bullet wounds continue to bleed sluggishly. He smoothes a hand down the material, feeling a ghost of pain as his palm brushes over the wounds.

"Shouldn't we clean him up first?" The woman from the truck speaks up, letting her rifle drop. 

"No." Negan gives her a serious look, the corner of his mouth turning down. "We're not wastin' water on him." 

The sound of a paint can being shaken echoes through the factory floor making Rick startle with a visible jolt, his shoulders jumping and his teeth flashing at the raucous noise. 

It stirs up the presence in his mind for the first time since that truck ride, he feels it pushing itself through his conscious, parting his common sense and fear like the sea. 

It makes him lock eyes with Simon, even though his residual fear screams for him to avert his gaze, to run, he stands fast with his heart clenched in an invisible fist until he feels like he'll suffocate. 

Simon stops shaking the can then, looking to Negan. "What should we put on it?" 

"Ya know-- I feel like a big orange A just doesn't really do it for me." Negan uncrosses his arms, snatching the spray paint out of Simon's proffered hand. "Besides, he doesn't belong to them anymore."

Rick narrows his eyes, a soft growl spilling from his chest as he forces himself to fist his hands in the fabric at his sides lest he lash out and make things worse. 

This seems to give the Savior a brilliant idea, his face lit up as he uncaps the can, stepping right into Rick's personal space. "I got it." 

Giving Rick a crooked smile Negan grabs the bottom hem of Rick's shirt, stretching it out until any wrinkles in the fabric are gone. "You're gonna want to hold still." 

Against Negan's suggestion, Rick steps backwards but it doesn't seem to phase the Savior who continues to concentrate, tongue poking out from between his teeth as the spray paint is discharged with a hiss. 

Even when he's finished, Negan holds the shirt up for a few seconds, surveying his handiwork with a nod before letting it drop back against Rick's chest. 

Looking down Rick recognizes the word even upside down, mutt glares up at him in relatively neat toxic orange letters, the paint is still wet, bleeding in small lines along the threads of the cotton and overlapping with the pinks and reds already there. 

"That's your place in the new world order-" A cruel finger raps against Rick's temple, "and you will live, breath and die by it, prick."

By the time Rick looks up, Negan's already got his back turned to him, the Savior's words still resonating clear as day in Rick's ears. 

"Until I think you've earned otherwise."

Negan stops, looking over his shoulder as he adds, "Alright, take him to the hole."

Simon steps forward but is quickly stopped by a hand on his chest.

"Fuck, I almost forgot." Negan steps forward with a finger raised in the air, a smile on his face that makes it seem like he did anything but forget. 

The Savior sidles up to Simon, grabbing the pistol from the other man's holster and in the same motion flips off the safety before firing a round straight into Rick's kneecap. 

He drops, an involuntary scream leaving him that quickly dissolves into a whimper when the searing pain quickly dissipates, lasting but a moment like the hot flash of lightning that rents the air. 

Still, it leaves Rick panting on the ground with his hand clutching at the shattered remains of his knee, looking up at Negan with a death sentence blazing in his eyes. 

Red takes over. 

Until he finds himself unceremoniously sprawled on his stomach at Negan's feet, his leg having no way to straighten without the joints that connects the femur to the shin and thus sprawling out behind him in a disturbing mess. 

He tries to stand up again, this time on his good leg but by then the fight's fled him and he's barely managing to balance. Even though it hurts no worse than a bad paper cut, Rick can't support any weight on the leg, feeling it crumple at the knee when he tries. 

Negan watches him, pistol no longer in hand and Rick realizes with a frustrated shout that the man knows exactly what he's doing. 

Simply dragging and hopping his way towards the Savior is ridiculous but Rick does it anyway, watching the satisfied smile stretch across Negan's lips with each fruitless step. It only fuels Rick's anger, throwing himself in a mad, desperate effort, but once more his fingers close around thin air and his teeth shut around nothing. 

Negan simply takes a step back, watching Rick like he's a horse at the race track with a freshly broken leg- pathetic and particularly disheartening as it keeps trying to stand. 

Rick falls hard, glaring up at the man with the seething rage of a mongoose facing a cobra. "I'll kill you." 

Negan rolls his eyes, crouching low with his elbows on his knees, the silver pistol dangling in the space between them. "Grab the gun outta my hands. Go ahead, see how far you get." 

Negan holds itl out, handle first and Rick remembers the RV when he'd been given the same chance to kill the man but now he doesn't fall for it, instead he glares at the gun wishing it would go off by sheer force alone and put a bullet in Negan's chest. 

Rick breaks the glare, looking at the dirty concrete ground in silent defeat, loud breaths falling from his mouth as he feels the warmth of his own blood pool around his leg. 

"Now I know that shit's probably gonna heal with whatever X-Men bullshit you got goin' on but you better hope for your sake it slows you down-- because if not?" Negan pauses, placing the tip of the pistol under Rick's chin and forcing the man to look him in the eyes, too bright blue against sadistic hazel. 

"I will fire a round into your kneecap every goddamn day until it does." It's barely above a whisper but every word feels like another gunshot. 

"You do not lay a goddamn finger on my people." Negan continues, bringing his face dangerously close to Rick's and he thinks he could just bite the Savior's nose right off, but instead Rick cringes backwards. The metal under his chin is hauntingly cold, keeping him in place but he can't help but think it's still not as cold as Negan's eyes.

"Are we clear?" 

He swallows, his vision starting to shake as he strains to hold his chin up high. The barrel of the gun disappears just as he shuts his eyes against it and Rick lets his head fall, a barely discernible whisper leaving his reluctant lips.

An unexpected hand on Rick's shoulder makes his breath shaky, punching out of him faster with a raspy wheeze attributed to liquid in the lungs. He tries to shuffle away from the grip, a desperate hand coming up to grab at the other man's wrist but Negan's fingers curl in like a hawk ensnaring its prey. 

Negan manhandles him, pushing him over with a shove and dragging Rick closer by his ankle. He fights him, kicking at the bigger man and gripping the slick ground as wordless protests fall from his mouth.

It does nothing, but Rick's worries are unfounded when all the Savior does is tie a bandana firmly around the minced meat of his knee. It's tugged tight enough to send a white hot jolt of pain racing across every nerve.

With that, Negan lets him go and stands to his full height looking down at him as if he's a raccoon who'd been caught rummaging in the trash can. "Don't need you gettin' the floors fuckin' filthy." 

Confusion is about the only thing that rattles around in Rick's mind for a good minute. He delicately traces a hand over the makeshift bandage, as if he can't believe it's there. His stupor doesn't last long. 

An aggressive grip on his forearm has him scrambling to keep his feet under him as he's hauled up. His injured leg does little more than crumple uselessly as he's dragged bodily by Simon. The man's face is neutral but his grip is punishing. 

"Take him by the doc first and get him a damn muzzle or somethin'-- make it real Hannibal-esque, ya feel me?" Negan chimes in as they pass by, headed deeper into the Sanctuary.

"And get someone to mop this shit up." Negan's shout rings through the air even as the doors close with an ominous crash behind them. 

Simon hauls him away, practically holding him up with a grip under his armpit. Every step is preceded by a pathetic dragging of Rick's foot, pulling the leg behind him in an eerily painless shamble that is undeniably that of a walker's. 

All limp ankle and bum knee, listing to one side as he tries to match the Simon's pace through the halls lest he be dragged like deadweight or worse.

It sets him on edge, every fiber of his being screams in protest and his jaw creaks with how hard he grinds his teeth. 

Entering what has to be the infirmary, an older man in his fifties rushes to greet them, ushering them inside with the nervous energy of a rabbit welcoming a fox into its warren. 

"Dr. Carson." The man holds his hand out, quickly taking it back when Rick makes no move to shake it. "Erm-- well, the other Dr. Carson, you probably met my brother -at the Hilltop Colony?" 

Rick eyes the doctor silently and thinks if nervousness had a spokesperson, it would be this man. 

The doctor's eyes seem to hover across the red stains on Rick's shirt and the toxic orange word emblazoned there. 

"Is he injured-- beyond the obvious." The doctor inclines his head towards Rick's knee. 

"It'll heal." Simon waves a dismissive hand in the air, shoving Rick forward. "Word on the street is this asshole took a half a dozen bullets to the chest and he's still standing."

Still, the doctor is incredibly skeptical, ushering Rick to sit down while Simon huffs, exasperated by the man's concern. The tall Savior prompts him to hurry up, a small quip under his breath stating that it's not worth his time. 

Ignoring him, the doctor lifts Rick's shirt, seeing the evidence of the bullet wounds half healed over and caked with dried blood. He searches for exit wounds, invasive hands cold against Rick's skin. 

The wheezing wet rattle of Rick's breaths fill the silence and the doctor listens to the sound for a moment, a distrubed expression darkening his features. 

"Some of the bullets are still in him." 

A cough punches out of Rick at this revelation, perfect timing it seems because red splatters the hand he raises to cover his mouth. 

Panicked, the doctor presses a wad of gauze into a Rick's hand, prompting him to clean up the bloody spittle.

Startled by the sudden gesture, Rick flinches away from the doctor simultaneously letting the cotton fall from his hand as his lips pull back and his nose furrows like an angry dog.

Rick doesn't see how his pupils pin and his eyes seem to cloud over, bright blue bleeding into milky white. Perfect visages of the eyes of the undead. 

All he feels is his mind wrenched taught like a metal band, ready to snap at any moment. He watches the only other people in the room with thoughts teetering precariously between threat and food like a disturbing metronome. 

Simon seems to find this change amusing rather than threatening, a lopsided smile gracing his face. "Wouldn't get too buddy buddy there, doc." 

The smug man leans against the opposite wall, crossing his arms, "This reprobate ripped a lady's throat out with his bare teeth. He sure as hell ain't something you wanna be sympathizing with." 

Rick watches with red-tinted vision as the doctor's concern bleeds into fear, his sympathy turning to cautiousness that has him eyeing Rick like a rabid dog and stepping away from the exam table. 

He can't stop the way his eyes track the man in the white coat, sizing him up, wondering how easy it would be...

Still, despite his fear the doctor is persistent. "But shouldn't I at least-" 

"Let me spell it out for you--" Simon pushes away from the wall, hands raised as he gestures. "He's not in pain, and he's not gonna die." 

In the most patronising manner possible, Simon shoves his finger against the doctor's shoulder. "Your only order from Negan is to get this mutt a mask so he keeps those pearly whites to himself, capiche?" 

Rick can't help the sound that leaves him as Simon approaches, like the unpleasant chuff of a thoroughly pissed off pit bull spliced with a cat. It's unnatural, guttural and haunting in its entirety. And it's familiar. Like the distant snarls of the walkers strapped to the fence.

The doctor practically leaps away, his demeanor shifting entirely into an unfriendly hostility. Any trace of concern has seemingly fled him permanently. Instead, shifty eyes and a distrubed frown are all that's left as the doctor rummages in the back of a drawer. 

Unphased, Simon messes with some of the medical equipment, occupying the space as if he owns every centimeter of it and keeping his back to Rick with the utter ignorance one affords to a pesky gnat. 

Visibly disturbed, the doctor straightens up, something made of clear plastic and black straps is clutched awkwardly in his hands. 

Rick isn't certain of what it is but he's hazarded a guess that unfortunately turns out to be right. Sitting still, he tries to ignore the fingers brushing his face and the plastic that digs into his cheekbones. 

The doctor avoids his eyes, looking everywhere but and actively treating Rick as if he's just some animal who he's been tasked with restraining.

If it makes the task easier, Rick doesn't know but for him it feels like an eternity.

His eyes look at the grey wall ahead of him, staring at the medical charts and little drawers as he ignores the increasing warmth of his own hot breath trapped by the mask and the feel of knuckles brushing against his skull as straps are pulled tight and buckled. 

When the doctor finally steps away, an uncomfortable tilt to his lips, Rick feels the pressure on his jaw and he can just barely see the raised plastic, feel it cross the bridge of his nose and dig firmly into the space under his eyes. 

It's muzzle. There's no better way to rationalize it and he has to stop himself from reaching up to rip the damn thing off his face. 

"It's a um--" The doctor hesitates, addressing Simon while he shoots Rick a sidelong glance. "It's just a medical restraint mask from the psych ward haul a year or two back. So he'll still be able to get it off if he tries." 

"Kinky." Simon examines his nail beds, not looking up. "He'll keep it on if he wants to be able to walk someday, ain't that right?" 

Simon looks up then, that wide thin smile brimming with teeth and lacking a human disposition hits Rick like a punch to the gut. It forces his eyes down, cowed like a dog. 

A mocking finger flicks against his forehead, forcing a growl out of him as his instincts tell him to snap at the sudden intrusion. His jaw can barely open under the force of the restraint so all he manages to do is bare his teeth, separating them so minutely under the tension that they snap close with a quiet clack. 

He's stretched thin between the desire to run or the desire to hurt. Looking Simon in the eyes does little to quell that, if anything the internal conflict worsens, his adrenaline clashing against the dissonant howls in his head like some sick out of tune symphony. 

It leaves him rattled enough that he doesn't realize he's being hauled somewhere else, his leg once more dragging behind him. This time, they pass people, workers and even a few armed Saviors.

They afford him the same weary eye that one casts at an approaching walker.

Deeper and deeper they seem to go, as he's practically tossed down stairs steps with a firm shove to his back, trying to catch himself only lands him back on the filthy floor. Each time, Simon fists a hand in the back of his shirt, dragging him further still. 

The world becomes this flash of imagery and sound and sensation. Some are familiar, some are family, warm smiles and warm meals, warm hands and gentle voices that battle with stern words, harsh kicks and fingerprint shaped bruises across his neck and down his arms. 

It's bleak, lifeless even. His existence boiled down to this. His new home is a storage closet stripped bare, a single door leading in and out, and he's left to sit on the floor lame leg stretched as he stares blankly at the dark corner ahead of him. 

"Now that certainly suits you." 

He blinks, chasing away the phantom traces of his past only for them to be replaced with the haunting visage of a silhouette in the doorway, ringed by golden light and ethereal confidence. It'd be an angel if not for the face of the devil it wore. 

Missing his leather jacket and his beloved weapon, Negan looks more like a regular at the local bar and less like some cartoon villain. 

"Now I'm still pissed as hell that you killed a lot of my men." Negan's voice lacks its usual ring, instead sounding flat and tired in comparison.

"And when I sent my people, to kill your people, for killing my people? You killed more of my people.” With each pause, Negan steps closer, closing in on Rick who's managed to shove himself in the furthest corner of the room, bending away from the light that streams in.

Wary eyes, flashing their whites like an animal track Negan's movements, everything from his twitching fingers to the subtle dip of his brows. Rick watches it all, coiled like a snake preparing to strike. 

"That shit is so not cool.” The Savior's voice dips as his lip curls back just so. 

“What's even more uncool?” This time, his words return to their familiar jaunty quality but his shoulders remain a hard line. "I find out that your sorry ass can't die and isn't that just the shit stick in the mud?” 

The kick to Rick's shin isn't meant to cause pain but it forces him to his feet, as if his brain's been jump-started into action by the blow. 

Leaning heavily against the wall, he tries to drive as much space between himself and Negan as possible. The damn mask clicks noisily against the wall as he dips his head and it makes his skin ignite with a thousand ant bites. 

“You don't deserve to live.” Negan steps up, nose to nose with Rick. “Not when people worth more than you gotta die ” 

Rick doesn't reply, only huffing loudly as he tries to scratch angry furrows into the walls. 

“I mean can you even call this living?” Leaning back on his heels, Negan gives Rick a serious up and down glance before his hand shoots out grabbing the front of the muzzle. It covers most of the little holes at the front of the mask and Rick feels his quickening breaths condensate against his lips and skin. 

Damp and warm, it causes the dried blood to turn slick once more and the metallic smell clogs his nose with its enticing allure, like a beckoning promise of life that something in him craves. 

Giving Rick's head a quick side to side shake, Negan lets him go with a disinterested shove, like a kid deciding a particular toy is no longer amusing.

“You're lucky I brought you here. Cause I'm gonna fix you up. It's what I do, Rick." Negan draws his name out, making it sound like something that doesn't belong to him anymore. "I save people.” 

Rick wants to scoff at the delusional man but, Negan's already turned his back to him. He hates the panic that thrills through him at the idea of being left alone in this dark place with something even darker inside of him.

The next time Rick sees the light he doesn't know how much of him will be left at all. 

Standing back in the doorway and once more framed by the fluorescents, Negan grips the door, once more some cruel facade of an angel. "'Sides Samurai is cool and all, but I have a feeling it just ain't the same without you in the picture.” 

The door slides shut with the creaking groan of old rusty hinges, still Negan's parting words remain the loudest thing in Rick's ears. 

“Sweet dreams, prick." 

The light vanishes and a lock clicks, with that the invisible strings keeping him upright snap. 

Slumped against the wall, he stares at the tiny yellow sliver beneath the door wondering if he'll ever see the sun again or be stuck with this pale imitation until he forgets what the outside looks like. 

Letting his eyes slip closed, he listens to the weak thud of his pulse and the gentle rattle of each breath. He thinks maybe he'll manage to fall into the dark, uncaring embrace of sleep. 

The opening drum beats of a song pierce his ear drums, lighting up his brain like the night sky on the fourth of July. Except it's all the wrong colors, no whites and blues just red, red, red. 

And he slams his head back into the concrete with a whine, welcoming the explosion of colors that bursts before his eyes with each smack. Because at least it's not red. At least it's not frothing hunger and unquenchable anger. At least it's not curled fingers and desperate teeth. 

But the song keeps going. Cheerful singing and cheerful beat on a constant loop until he doesn't know what he's supposed to be anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Easy Street time.
> 
> In case anyone was wondering; the mask referenced here is the same one Will Graham wears only NBC's Hannibal.


End file.
